


Pedagogy

by OrionLady



Series: O Blessed Child [5]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Being a teenager is hard, Cooking, Dancing, Dating, Do you know how hard it is to tie a nice Windsor knot?, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Friendship, Families of Choice, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grieving, Healing, Humor, In this house we wave at canon and then keep on walking, Learning to Drive, Parent-Child Relationship, Parenting a traumatized child is also hard, Past Character Death, Sleepy Cuddles, Team as Family, Tenderness, Trust, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21860683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrionLady/pseuds/OrionLady
Summary: Pedagogy (n.): Instruction, discipline, training; a system of introductory training; a means of guidance.Peter, experiencing happiness and enjoying being his age for the first time in a long time, learns some relevant life skills from his parents—and they learn an even more important one from him.
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark
Series: O Blessed Child [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1490156
Comments: 44
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's so nice to be back writing for this fandom again! Hope you all enjoy the promised peacetime, we're-not-about-to-die-every-five-seconds fic in the series! This one's more about healing after all the trauma and how to move forward when the future is really scary sometimes. 
> 
> Bon apetit!

“Dude, no way. Seriously?”

Peter’s head is a wash of dizzying colours and popped bubbles of explosive sounds. He blinks. “Way.”

“Like, for real?”

To be honest, Peter’s been asking himself the same question for the last ten minutes, as it’s entirely within the realm of possibility that he hallucinated the whole interaction. He replays the big moment in his head: the build up, the awkward fidgeting, that three letter, single syllable, _“Yes. Yes, of course, Peter”_ looping around his brain in delicious circuits.

“I think so.” Peter looks down at his hand, the warm spot he can still imagine. “I didn’t pass out or anything, totally successful.”

Ned blows out a noisy, burbled breath. “Never thought I’d see the day this side of eleventh grade.”

“What?” Peter makes a face. “You doubt me?”

“No, no! Of course not, Peter! It’s just, well…” Ned teeter totters his hand back and forth.

That, combined with his pitying eyes and skeptical squint, is enough for Peter to bristle. It wakes him from the shockwave. He halts on the top step of the school entrance with sudden, abrupt force that is almost… _almost_ a stomp.

April sunshine glints off the cars lined up and waiting to pick up their children. It blinds Peter for a moment, further goading his irritation.

“You’re lucky enough to have two parents, Ned. That’s the perfect number of parents—the max. Do you know how many parents I have, Ned, huh?”

Ned grimaces. “Six.”

“Six!” Peter flails a hand. “ _At least_ six!”

“Are you going to tell them?” Ned prompts. His voice carries that _just so_ gravity of wisdom that Peter hates and loves in equal measure, which says he understands far more than anyone else in a given situation.

Peter’s eyes bug. “Are you kidding me? Ned, they’d eat me alive. Tony alone would be a bona fide nightmare to deal with.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do we really want to find out?”

Ned’s brow quirks. “ _I_ certainly do—and I want a front row seat for it. But clearly you don’t, which I respect. Just don’t keep it on the down low for long.”

“Down low?” Something slimy squirms in Peter’s gut, all twisted and shy. “I’m not keeping it on the down low.”

“Okay, then you’re keeping a secret.”

“Wait. I take it back.” Peter rushes to wave his hands. “We don’t use that word around my parents anymore. ‘Secret’ is like contraband in the compound no matter what the context. We are definitely keeping this on the DL.”

“Keeping what on the DL?”

Ned whirls and by the time Peter’s eyes search the sea of adults to find that loved voice, he’s already grinning. 

It takes him a beat longer to find Clint than usual, mainly because he’s not dressed like usual. Instead of a leather jacket and jeans—being Clint’s version of ‘dressy’—he’s donned in dress pants, collared blue shirt, and a silk vest. Satin overlay on the cuffs sheens under afternoon sunlight, complementing a pair of diamond cuff links.

He looks…good. Really good. It’s immediately suspicious.

“Why do you look like Tony?” Peter fires back.

Ned leans back to _roar_ at that one, but Clint gestures to himself with a tall thermos and an offended expression. “Rude. I’ll have you know I am fully capable of cleaning up in fancy attire when the occasion requires it. Do you know how many missions I’ve done that require me to go undercover at high roller parties and casinos?”

“No,” says Peter, still fighting a smile, “I mean those are _actually_ Tony’s clothes. What gives?”

“Charity dinner tonight.” Clint takes a sip. “I agreed to accompany Pepper as her plus one, a ‘representative of the team’ for any reporters, since Tony’s still away in Malibu. There’s free food so I’m in.”

“Pepper asked you and not Nat, easily the most diplomatic member out of all of you?”

Clint grumbles into his hot chocolate. “Extra rude. Kids are mean these days.”

Ned giggles some more and though Clint tries to hide it, Peter spies his own grin hidden behind the cup.

“So everything’s cool, champ?”

Peter nods. “Yep. Better than cool, even.”

“Nice.” Clint tugs Peter under one arm and they wave goodbye to Ned. “Because this whole semester has been oddly chill and normal and I don’t want to jinx it.”

Peter holds up his hand in the Boy Scout pose. “I would never.”

“Oh sure.” Clint watches fondly while Peter steals a sip of his hot chocolate. “Where have I heard that before?”

A strange burning ricochets down Peter’s throat so that his eyes water. “There’s totally a spritz of rum or something in this. Gross.”

It’s Clint’s turn to laugh, loud and long.

Peter, for the zillionth time, savours that this is his life now: the simple feel of Clint’s arm across his shoulders, the banal domesticity of being picked up from school, classmates filing around them, a beautiful day without a cloud in sight.

He’ll never take it for granted again.

He’s also _desperately_ relieved that Clint bought the attempt at distraction, or is at least pretending to, so that Peter doesn’t have to explain this whole harebrained thing that wasn’t even supposed to work in the first place.

Now that it has…Peter has no idea where to start.

For all Clint’s preening and peacock strutting, when he finally clicks his key fob, it isn’t the chirp of an expensive car that greets them, not the _vroom_ of one of Tony’s racers…

Peter sees the headlights wink to life on the curb and ribs Clint. “Tony is going to _kill_ you if you get his clothes dirty. Which you are if we’re riding that thing through downtown traffic. In the spring.”

“Yeah, well.” Clint retrieves an extra helmet off the back and hands it to Peter. He downs the last of his hot chocolate while swinging a leg over the motorcycle and revving the engine. “If I can’t have a little fun at Tony’s expense, then what’s the point?”

* * *

Despite the fact that Peter’s presence in their lives made them all homebodies, with predictable hours and— _gasp—_ consistent eating schedules, the compound is still quite a nocturnal place. They’re used to working overtime in the lab or insomniac patterns of never going to bed at all or working undercover in different time zones.

Whatever the reason, usually at least one person is awake in the compound at one in the morning.

Although…this hasn’t been quite so common of an occurrence since their retirement. Aside from humanitarian work or designing new security and agricultural solutions, they don’t _do_ urgent work.

So Bruce is more than a little surprised to hear mutters and the hiss of overflowing pots in their dark kitchen.

An awful burning smell accompanies it.

He actually passes the kitchen in his sleepy state, taking a break from a long sequencing project that still doesn’t work quite the way he wants it to, before all of this hits.

He stops.

Cants his head in confusion.

Walks backwards.

It isn’t any of the Avengers or Pepper making a lasagna at this witching hour. Not a dish Thor left covered and forgot to turn the burner off.

It’s Peter.

Bruce just watches for a moment, the way Peter darts between a rising loaf of garlic bread on the counter, that he’s supposed to be kneading, and two pots bubbling over onto the stove. Bruce can’t tell what is in these, except that one has tomato sauce and the other seeps a translucent, olive oil looking fluid.

To top it all off, a tea kettle whistles.

Peter rushes to take it off the smaller burner. There’s flour in his curls, sauce all over his shirt in designs that would make Jackson Pollock proud, and something sticky between his fingers. He looks a bit like a child caught poking his fingers in a mother’s evening meal.

Bruce keeps his steps slow and quiet, rounding the island at a gentle crawl so as not to startle the frazzled teen. Peter doesn’t notice him at all, too busy caught up in trying to salvage the tomato sauce.

“Peter?” Bruce murmurs low in his throat. “You need some help?”

His son still jumps a tiny bit at the intrusion, turning fearful and panicked eyes onto Bruce that scream _help me!_

Bruce does, immediately flipping off the sauce burner and removing the…olive oil? No, it’s supposed to be some type of pudding…completely. The tea he pours into his chipped sunflower mug and Peter’s smaller, Death Star shaped and themed cup, a Christmas gift from Tony in his travels to California.

Deflating, now that the crisis is over, Peter accepts the cup with a weary nod. “Thanks, Bruce.”

With a shallow prod to Peter’s shoulder, Bruce herds them to sit at the island. They sip quietly in the dark, affording Bruce an opportunity to study the boy and try to make sense of this bizarre encounter.

Peter’s in his pajamas, long T-shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and his eyes look well rested, so no insomnia or nightmares to blame. His legs, too short for the barstool, swing a little. Still, he’s grown a good few inches since losing the need for a cane—Tony celebrated that victory, his ‘suped up protein bars,’ for weeks.

Peter feels the scrutiny and sighs. “I’m fine, Bruce.”

“Mhmm.” Bruce blows on his tea and takes a sip. “Wanna tell me what you’re doing making a three course meal at one thirty in the morning, then?”

“Sorry about the mess,” says Peter, blatantly avoiding the question. “I’ll clean it up.”

“I don’t care about the mess, Peter. You didn’t do anything wrong—I just want to know why this couldn’t wait until daylight hours.”

Peter squirms on his seat. He avoids Bruce’s eyes to pick at grooves in the Death Star’s ceramic. His nose wrinkles when he gets another whiff of the botched sauce.

“Peter?” Bruce bends to catch his eye. “Was it because you didn’t want any of us to know about what you’re doing?”

There’s a frustrated tilt to Peter’s lips. “Maybe.”

“I see.” Bruce sits back.

They sip some more, and the not-quite-pudding finally stops bubbling. Bruce rises to place the garlic bread in the oven to cook, probably the only thing on this menu that Peter got sort of correct, thanks to one of Nat’s cook books sitting on the counter.

Peter takes a noisy slurp that makes Bruce smile.

Having a younger person in the house has changed them all, irreversibly, in ways they’d never take back. Peter is like helium, lightening each step and floating them up towards a future they never dared dream about before now.

“Hey, Bruce? Where’s your family from?”

Bruce turns, resuming his seat. “My family? I was born in Ohio…”

“No, I mean, where are you _from_?” Peter circles the hand not clasping the mug to his chest. “Like, historically? Genealogy and all that stuff?”

“You’re referring to the Banner surname?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Peter’s gone a little red while asking this question, and Bruce senses that it’s taken him a lot of courage to voice it at all. The teen’s eyes dart around but he’s leaned forward, attentive, to soak in however Bruce answers.

“I’m…not all that sure, to be honest. I’ve never done research on it, so I don’t even know what part of the world it originates from.” Bruce leans in too, just so Peter can rest his head on his shoulder. “I don’t exactly love my last name after how its owners have treated me.”

Peter goes quiet. “Oh. Sorry I asked.”

“None of that,” Bruce scolds softly, cupping the curly head. “You’re never in trouble for asking questions.”

“I know May was Italian,” says Peter, once he’s calmed. “But she was related to me by marriage…not sure about Parker.”

Bruce finally glances around at the mess of food, the sauce and the pages of the cook book he’s flipped to, and puts it together. “Peter, are you trying to make authentic Italian food?”

A pause. Peter physically hesitates, stiff against Bruce for a moment.

Then he nods. “I’ve never really learned how to cook and I…I _need_ to, you know?”

Bruce doesn’t know, not even remotely.

Cooking and food have always been about survival in his case, whatever was needed to keep on the move, not starve. Wolfed down in stilted moments of hiding or while huddled in the storage compartment of a train or in rice fields or…

Until recently, he never had the luxury of caring about what he ate or how nicely it was prepared. His heritage was never something he wanted to consider at all, best kept far away from conscious thought.

But then Bruce gazes down into those big, matching brown eyes, and though he may not understand what prompted this need to secretly learn to cook—he sees a boy looking up, trying to make sense of the world and enjoy it all in one.

Bruce feels a melting, zapping sensation in his chest. “Would you like me to teach you?”

Peter freezes, visibly stunned. Then his hard frown stretches into a taffy bright smile and his eyes light up with excitement.

“Really? You mean…we can make something together?”

“Sure, I’d love to.” Bruce barely gets the words out before Peter has one of his hands in both of his own, tugging him over to the counter. Bruce laughs, accepting the side hug. “I’m not sure what Parker is—Old English or French, probably—but why don’t we start with an easier dish than fusilli.”

Peter watches Bruce dig out an onion and a hoard of root vegetables. “Are we making soup?”

“Close. Stew, which is native to a lot of cultures around the world in their various forms. Sound good?”

“Let’s do it.” Peter rubs his hands together.

Bruce hands him a fine knife. “You chop onions to sauté in a fresh pot while I do the veggies.”

“Sauté?”

“Err…turn the heat on and brown them a bit with some butter or oil at the bottom. Then we’ll add veggies and broth.”

“Gotcha,” says Peter, though Bruce is fairly certain he very much does not process any of this. He’s reminded that May was not the best cook, though an enthusiastic one. Neither is Nat, for that matter, regardless of how good her books are.

“Ah! Ah!” Bruce saves Peter’s fingers a nasty slice by tugging them out of the blade’s path. “Careful. Chop like this, tip to wrist. See?”

Peter watches Bruce for a minute, slicing the carrots.

Then Bruce, seeing that he’s still struggling, grasps Peter’s smaller hand in his burly one. He threads the knife up and down. The feel of the boy's fingers are warm, petite, sticky with the cooking disaster and soft all at once.

Bruce’s heart softens with them.

“It’s an elliptical motion,” says Peter, once he gets the hang of it and Bruce steps back. “That creates a focal point of pressure at the bottom of the loop. A clean cut.”

“Exactly.” Bruce’s brows rise over his glasses. “I’m impressed.”

Peter beams at the praise and Bruce marvels, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that this whole relationship is a second chance, for all the team. To be the parents none of them, aside from maybe Thor and even then not so positively, ever really had.

“Thanks, Bruce.”

Bruce ruffles his boy’s hair. “You’re welcome. I may not know the reason _why_ you wanted to cook right now, but any time you need help, I’m here.”

Peter’s back to red cheeks and that shy crinkle in his nose, more hushed this time. The oven dings on their garlic bread and Bruce takes it out while keeping an eye on Peter’s wayward fingers.

Once it’s cool, Peter tears off a piece from the loaf’s bulb and pops it in his mouth. He chews it around for a solid thirty seconds, taking his time, face scrunching and then releasing.

“This tastes terrible.”

Bruce laughs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So.” Tony grabs another rag from DUM-E and wipes off the mess, best he can. “Since I’m assuming you didn’t come all the way down here to talk about the riveting world of auto mechanics with me, what’s up?”
> 
> “Actually…” Peter’s eyes spark. He visibly musters his nerve. “I kinda did.”
> 
> Tony nearly drops the rag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's read the first chapter and for your lovely responses!

Feet clop by the narrow rectangle of space formed by the undercarriage of the car and the floor. Like a white Pong ball, the feet blip to one side…now to the left…right…back again…looping to the right…

Just watching them is exhausting.

There’s no need to check who the feet belong to because not only does only one person in this compound have feet that small, but they’re wearing two different coloured sneakers and one of them is Sharpied with math formulas.

Tony lets them pace for a few more minutes.

He’s been trying to get the home-designed hydraulic brakes on this Hellcat right for _ages_ , and they do not want to balance correctly for the lighter weight of the chassis compared to a truck. Tony hasn’t had this much trouble working on a car since he was fifteen.

It’s a Saturday, eight in the morning, and that alone is enough to be an unusual occurrence, both for Tony and the nervous feet. They’re wide awake, the pair of them, though Tony has a feeling the reason for this is wildly different in either case. He’s awake because he’s mad at a car and needs to think.

The other human in his lab…he’s not so sure.

“Small fry?” he calls, quiet. “Any reason for the rut you’re wearing in my floor? I mean, don’t get me wrong it’s a nice floor. Top of the line, actually, but it doesn’t seem very fun when yours truly is here designing a brake system from scratch. I’m much more interesting, if I do say so myself.”

His rambling works and the feet stop.

“See? What did I tell you—riveting. People can never get enough of watching…”

Silence.

“Peter?” Tony tries again. His hands pause around a wrench, a little alarmed. He’s gotten so used to Peter’s increased chatter, his confidence returning—this wordlessness throws him back into the past year and therefore off kilter.

For a split second, his mind entertains injuries and blood and some crisis that mutes Peter’s tongue. “You wanna talk to me?”

The feet jolt, as if Peter suddenly realizes the connotations of this question. He bends and his chestnut head appears near Tony’s face under the car. Injury free. “Sorry. I’ve, uh…I’ve got a question to ask you.”

“Must be some question.”

“Ha.” Peter laughs but it sounds just as strung out as his feet. He straightens and disappears from sight. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tony wipes his hands and rolls the creeper out using his feet. Above him, Peter has resumed his pacing, fidgeting with the zipper on his sweater. He’s alternating between flushed and pale. Mostly flushed.

There’s no sense trying to read the struggle on Peter’s face because it’s a mess of so many emotions at once, all fighting over top of each other. The pinched lips of irritation, the fast blinking eyes of anxiety, a divot between his brows that’s borne of dread.

Holding out a hand, Tony snaps his fingers. “Help an old man up.”

Peter rolls his eyes but obliges. “You’re not an old man. You’re…midlife, I guess? Old is when all your hair falls out.”

“Is that so?” Tony can’t help but grin, both in response to the wild strength of the grip that tugs him to standing and the adolescent tone. “I’ll live forever, then. The Stark genes won the lottery in terms of hair.”

Peter smiles a bit and it relaxes his shoulders instantly. Tony resists the urge to ruffle his curls, covered in grease from elbow to finger tip. He considers doing it, just to tease, but the seriousness on Peter’s face stays his hand.

Whatever this is must be important.

Tony _also_ takes a moment to consider whether this has something to do with the clandestine cooking party that Bruce mentioned two nights ago. He tried to pry Bruce for details but the physicist had just shaken his head with that half grin, eyes cheeky, miming zippering his lips.

Typical.

“So.” Tony grabs another rag from DUM-E and wipes off the mess, best he can. “Since I’m assuming you didn’t come all the way down here to talk about the riveting world of auto mechanics with me, what’s up?”

“Actually…” Peter’s eyes spark. He visibly musters his nerve. “I kinda did.”

Tony nearly drops the rag. It takes a lot to catch him off guard after years of this kamikaze life but those three words do the trick. He stares at Peter with wide eyes, following the boy’s gaze to a row of cars in the far garage.

His brow shoot up. “What, for real? You paced nearly a mile’s worth across my lab just to ask about cars?”

Peter squares his shoulders. “Yep. I want to…I just…uh…I want to learn to drive, Tony.”

Tony drops the rag this time, in tandem with his jaw.

Relative to the average teenager, a sixteen year old at that, this is a banal phrase. It is said all over the world, every day, to parents and guardians and white knuckled driving instructors. For some, this is considered a rite of passage. Many teenagers learn right away and some wait a few years.

To an outside observer, there is nothing shocking about Peter, a normal looking junior in high school, wanting to get his license.

Except Peter is _not_ a normal teenager.

None of them, not the six of them or their families, have brought up the issue, not even once. This has been the year from hell—for them all, really—and driving is far, far down on the list of things Peter should be worrying about.

He’s only been _walking_ without a cane since January. Driving, at least in Tony’s mind, has felt like the moon with how far away it is. He pictured this being a discussion they have years down the road, pun intended.

Not…not _right now._

Is this the real, secret truth of how parents feel? Their children growing up faster than they can process it? It’s an appalling and scary feeling, if that’s true.

“Tony? Hello in there?”

Tony realizes he’s still gaping and promptly runs a hand down his face, smearing even more grease, for an excuse to get his frazzled thoughts together. Peter looks concerned for _him_ now. He holds out a water bottle.

“How long have you been down here?” Peter asks, his eyes cinched with worry at the edges.

Tony takes the water bottle but waves the question off. “I’m fine, Pete, just wasn’t expecting _that_. What prompted this sudden want for the open road?”

That slows Peter down. He clenches his jaw, seems to notice he looks tense, then finds an interesting patch of grease on Tony’s shoulder to stare at. “It’s an important life skill that I feel I should have.”

“It’s not _that_ important.” Tony eyes his boy with something shrewd, assessing. “We live in New York, after all. Some people take taxis or the subway their whole lives and never get behind the wheel of a car.”

“…It’s important to me. I need to know how.”

“You’re sure? You’ve thought this through?”

Peter’s eyes are to the side this time. “Mhmm! Totally.”

Tony grabs two stools from the work table and wheels them closer. Sitting down, he prompts Peter to do the same. This puts them at an even level and forces Peter to make actual eye contact. He’s sweating now, faint enough that Tony wouldn’t see it if he wasn’t looking.

The boy’s eyes dart around but as soon as Tony inches close enough for their knees to touch, Peter can’t look away. He briefly clenches his eyes shut and then sighs.

“Pete?” Tony’s quiet again.

It is this softness, of all things, that unravels the stiffness in his son’s fists, the tight line of his forehead. Like Tony’s gentle voice alone is a truth serum.

“Everybody else in my class has their learner’s permit,” Peter blurts.

Tony cants his head, considering this. “All of them?”

Peter hesitates. “Except for a few, because their families can’t afford cars. Even Trina can drive—and she’s in a wheelchair! She uses hand pedals instead.”

“Makes sense.” Tony nods. “So you don’t want to feel left out, is that it?”

“Does it matter why I want to drive?” Peter challenges. “I’ll find a way to learn even if you say no, even if it’s off the internet. I’d rather you teach me, though.”

Tony leans back a hair.

Well, this is new. Peter is your typical kid in a lot of ways, but pushing at boundaries and authority is not one of them.

Tony squints a minute longer at that strange, unreadable glint in Peter’s eye and finds it looks…familiar, if distant, like Tony saw it in the mirror many years ago. It is not Peter’s normal but it was Tony’s, once upon a time. Some plot is cooking up in that bushy head of Peter’s. 

Not a life or death secret, Tony thinks—but a critical one.

“Okay,” Tony says, willing to be in the dark for a while. Certainly, Peter’s version of ‘rebellious’ backtalk can’t hold a matchstick to Tony’s youth and if this is the worst he can throw at them, they’re going to be just fine. “We’ll get you a learner’s permit and teach you—”

“Yes!” Peter pumps his fist.

“—On one condition.”

Peter nods, though he hasn’t heard what it is yet. Tony feels a rush of affection for him, giving in this time and mussing with Peter’s hair. Peter doesn’t shove him off, just giggling at the sensation.

“We’re not taking your birthday gift on the road. You are learning in my old 90s clunker.”

“Done,” says Peter, a little wide eyed like he can’t believe it’s that easy. “I don’t care what car I drive around in. Less attention is better.”

Tony points to the blue, two door Mitsubishi 3000GT at the far end of the garage. “That’s the idea, small fry.”

Peter gasps, mouth open. “Are you kidding me? A _sports car_ is your idea of low profile?”

Tony glances from a red Ferrari nearby, not even released to the public yet, and back to the two door bucket of bolts. They’re decades and light years away to someone who is only used to driving the newest and the best. “Can we, in good conscience, even call that a sports car?”

“Yes! It’s flashy, Tony!” Peter flaps his hands. “Why don’t we just buy a piece of junk from the scrapyard? Something ugly?”

Tony pretends to look confused and finds it’s only half fake. “My college GT _is_ junky. And I’m a Stark—we don’t go to the junkyard.”

Peter runs two hands down his face with an exaggerated wail of distress, doing a spin, face red. And now Tony is really enjoying himself. He grins.

“Hop in, Petey pie.” Peter does so in the Hellcat, door left open so Tony can lean on it and point to the dash. “Fair warning, I believe in practical experience over textbook learning.”

“Oh believe me, I know. I still can’t believe you almost set my hair on fire during shop class.”

“Sshhh. The master is talking. Okay, so, see those two pedals?”

“I know the difference between the gas and brake pedals, Tony. I watched a YouTube video on it.”

Tony sends him a glare that is _one hundred percent_ real, no pretending required. “Did you just say to me, best mechanic of his generation, that you trust some schmuck’s online advice more?”

“Uh…” Peter glances from the car to Tony. “No? I mean, he was a stunt driver but—”

“Nope. Nada. Shove over or I’m making you learn in a go kart. I can’t believe my own son would betray me in such a personal way.”

Tony’s dramatic grumbling brings a hopeful smile to Peter’s face. He slides over into the passenger’s seat so Tony can close the door and adjust the seat. “Learning in a go kart actually sounds pretty fun.”

“Aht! No opinions allowed from someone who trusts the internet over me. Ugh. Just the thought gives me hives. Now, see how I have to put my foot on the brake _before_ shifting the stick out of park?”

“That has to do with the transmission, right?”

“Exactly! The hardest thing to master, however, is smooth braking and turning sharp corners…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So fun (not so secret anymore) fact about me - I'm obsessed with stunt driving technique and, like Peter, I watched YouTube videos on it before I ever got my license. Not the best way to learn, kids!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha's eyes are soft and loving, and Peter realizes she’s enjoying the fact that his feet can move with even this smidgen of coordination at all. He’s not floundering just to stand on two shaky legs or catatonic. His heart wells over with something that oozes and crackles all at once.
> 
> Of course, this tender scene is the exact moment Peter steps on her toe.

Everyone thinks of a ‘siren song’ sounding something like a woman’s voice, alluring and hypnotic and atonal. Dangerous. Maybe a little shivery.

Peter disagrees.

For him, the moment he’s sitting at his desk doing history homework and suddenly hears a burst of piano music, an etude of some sort, he jolts to standing. The sound arrests him at once and he stands at the threshold of his bedroom for a moment, just listening to it, the crescendos and falls.

There is no singing. Not even any strings or haunting melodies.

That gentle piano music still takes his breath away.

It draws his sock feet down the hall, a long way down the hall, and into a more well lit space. Peter, feeling a bit ridiculous, creeps along the wall so as not to spook the source of that singularly stunning music.

It is stunning not in its volume or its beauty, though Peter has always loved the sound of piano. It isn’t fast or jazzy or too slow. There is no one singing along or making any kind of accompaniment noise.

No, the music is stunning because it _never_ happens. Not here, not in this peaceful space that is typically enjoyed in complete silence.

It is stunning because Tony has offered, over and over and over again, to have a full stereo setup installed and every time he is turned down. He’s even offered to pay for a _live_ pianist like some studios use and still the idea of music never takes.

The door to the ballet studio is swung all the way open—also a strange occurrence.

Peter is spell bound, soul captured, entranced, all of the above. Not even by the sound of piano anymore:

But by the sight of Natasha moving to it.

She’s placed the boom box next to an outlet near the barre, but she’s in the middle of the floor, doing rhythmic grand-jetés and bent kneed jumps that _also_ take Peter’s breath away. She’s a sculpture in motion, the soft line of oil paint on a fresh canvas.

A fractal of ice melting off the last of autumn leaves.

At a skip in the CD, Nat rolls her eyes and just hops a little to it. Then the piano trills and she rises up into pas de bourrée. Watching her point shoes shuffle in tiny chalkboard scratches, coupled with her rolled up sweatpants and black leotard shirt, creates rose petal flutters in Peter’s chest.

Natasha dancing is, and always will be, one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen.

Her ballet bun is starting to fall out in crimson chunks and because of this frizzy curtain, she doesn’t spot him at first, though Peter wouldn’t be surprised if her acute hearing spied him approaching.

“You never dance to music.”

Peter’s voice is a murmur, quieter than the speakers, but Natasha still falls back on her heels.

She turns with a raised brow and a secret smile hidden in the corner pocket of her lips. Tiny key earrings continue to jitter even when she stops moving.

In all, the whole effect is that Natasha looks surprisingly…young. Not in age, for she’s already young by comparison to the others, but with relaxed lines around her eyes. She’s often a tightly wound silhouette.

Now…now she’s just Nat. Stripped down and shining with all the gilded pieces that make up their home.

Peter finds himself entering her sanctum before he can stop himself. Most times, they always ask, for entering Nat’s ballet studio is like typing in the code for Tony’s lab or going through Steve’s sketchpad. It’s private.

“Today I didn’t want the silence.” Natasha shrugs. “Figured this place could use some life.”

Peter personally thinks Nat and that certain wildness of her spirit is life enough for three ballet studios and ten more compounds besides, but he doesn’t voice this.

Instead—

“Can you show me how to dance?”

Nat blinks a few extra times than she needs and it’s almost surprise. She doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ve already taught you to dance.”

“Not ballet.” Peter slides his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched up close to his ears. “ _Dancing_ , dancing. Like…like waltzing and slow dancing and stuff.”

“Waltzing.” Nat’s voice is unreadable. “What would a young product of the twenty first century such as yourself need with waltzing?”

A tight heat crawls up Peter’s neck. He coughs to try and get rid of it. “Is that a yes?”

Nat spends another blatant minute just studying the minutia of Peter’s face. Then something in hers smooths. The secret smile grows to an outward one, capped off by a nod. “Ah. I see how it is. Of course, Peter, get over here.”

Peter straightens. “What, like now?”

“Why not?” Nat switches the song to something with a three-four beat. “You want to learn to dance, then here—let’s dance.”

Shuffling over with tense arms, Peter starts to question this whole plan. He hadn’t meant for her to figure it out _that_ fast. Certainly none of the others have, least of all Tony, who Peter thought would bust him in a heartbeat.

Small mercies.

“Are you going to tell the others?” he asks in a small voice.

Nat cants her head, sharp eyes making Peter feel like he’s under a microscope. “What happens in the ballet studio stays in the studio. Sound fair?”

Peter releases a big whoosh of air that lifts the bangs off his forehead. “Have I mentioned that you’re the best? Because you’re the best, objectively.”

He rambles for another minute, mostly to avoid the way Natasha is trying to sort out his arms like a store mannequin. There’s nothing awkward about it but he feels irrationally like he’s going to break her if he gets too close.

Which, _ha._ It would be easier to invade Fort Knox than break Natasha, at least physically.

She gets Peter into a ‘framed’ stance, his hand holding hers up and the other just below her shoulders. Nat winks and then props her elbow on his arm. They’re close enough in height that this whole moving in sync thing should be easy.

Peter blinks down at his feet and she flicks his forehead. “Eyes on me, malysh. You’re supposed to feel the music, not watch it. This isn’t a math equation or one of Bruce’s sequencing formulas.”

“I don’t get the box thing movies always talk about.”

“With your feet.” Natasha leads Peter for a moment and he finds it’s surprisingly easy to interpret and follow the subtle pressure cues her hand initiates along his spine. When it’s the heel of her palm he moves to the left, fingers only—to the right, full hand is a pull towards her end of the room. “See? Picture the four corners of a box. That’s where my feet are heading. Sometimes we do a little turn while we get there, nice and slow.”

Her eyes are soft and loving, and Peter realizes she’s enjoying the fact that his feet can move with even this smidgen of coordination at all. He’s not floundering just to stand on two shaky legs or catatonic. His heart wells over with something that oozes and crackles all at once.

Of course, this tender scene is the exact moment Peter steps on her toe.

Then the other foot in rapid succession.

“Oh.” Natasha doesn’t spring away at the pain but her arms tense. “Well, there you go. The first mistake of every rookie, ever. Welcome to the club.”

Peter apologizes under his breath. “Did _you_ step on your partner’s toes the first time you learned to dance?”

Natasha considers this and he can almost watch her mentally close the tabs on darker stories to find something lighthearted.

“Not really, no,” she admits.

“Figures.”

Nat smiles again. “Peter, I learned to dance from the time I was four years old, much harder styles than this to boot. We’ve only been waltzing for five minutes. It takes time, you know.”

“I don’t _have_ time.”

“Hmm.” The woman’s eyes narrow with playful shrewdness. Her voice comes out a fondant, silky tone. “When is it?”

Peter almost doesn’t answer, out of some childish need to feel in control and more mature about the whole situation than he currently is. At least, he consoles himself, if there’s anyone who can keep a secret in this compound—it’s Natasha.

“Next Friday,” he mumbles.

Nat scoffs. “A week exactly, then. You’re definitely going to be fine. Besides, kids these days don’t _waltz_. Just sway around in this shape with some sense of rhythm, sometimes not even that, and you’re golden.”

“I don’t want to mess it up.” Peter bites his lip. “It’s a kind-of big deal, you know?”

Nat blinks at him, more of those tabs closing in quick succession. Then she places a warm hand on his arm. “Sure, Peter, of course it is. I’m proud of you.”

Peter beams.

And then promptly steps on her big toe.

“Oh man.” Peter moans while Nat just wiggles her toe as if to make sure it’s still attached. “This is hopeless.”

“I think you’ll find you’re not as bad as some in this family.”

Peter isn’t sure what she means by that, especially since he’s pretty sure she has only danced with maybe two of the guys. Then Nat’s eyes light up again, this time with a grey note of sympathy mixed in.

When Peter turns around to follow Nat’s eyes, he sees Steve also at the door of the studio, leaned back against one of the mirrors with his arms crossed.

It’s the second shock in Peter’s day, to see him here and faintly grinning.

Though Steve is still present and engaged as usual, ever since Peggy Carter’s funeral last month, his eyes have been heavier, steps dragging, quiet, shirts a little too big in the ongoing battle to eat enough.

To _want_ to eat enough.

Peter has dreams sometimes about that day at the grave site, standing by Steve under a black umbrella while he placed a compass in the dirt. The way the sun insisted on shining like an insolent toddler in the face of Steve’s grief.

Peter has heard lots of stories but he isn’t blind. He knows there are things they’ve left out about Steve and this secret agent he knew all those years ago. Steve gazes at Peter and Nat with a similar expression of love.

However, there’s something sickly and very _wrong_ about the droop to his cheeks.

Nat doesn’t say anything about it, save to walk over and switch out the disk. She inserts a home-burned one that just says ‘from before’ in Nat’s spidery hand writing. The sound sizzles for a moment and then, after Nat turns it up, an old forties ballade starts to play.

“How about a demonstration lesson?” Nat asks Peter, but her eyes are on Steve.

“He can’t possibly be worse than me. I stepped on your toes—three times!”

Steve throws Nat a knowing look, some inside conversation recalled with a single glance, and quirks a brow. “You might be surprised, Pete.”

Nat takes his hand. “Wanna show the tyke how it’s done?”

Steve just swallows. “Not sure I know either. I haven’t danced since…we never got to…”

“Just feel the music,” Nat repeats, but this time it’s not playful. This time there’s something pained and grim tucked inside the words.

Steve, unlike Peter, knows how to make a frame with his arms at once, how to carefully grip Natasha. He’s holding his breath; Peter can see it even from five feet away.

Then the song’s strings fade into words and Steve’s eyes grow bright with recognition. He visibly firms his chin and when he just stands there blankly for a minute, Nat leans up on her toes to stroke his cheek with her thumb.

“We don’t have to if…”

Steve captures her hand. “No, it’s…okay. I’m good.”

He’s clearly not but Nat ignores this too in favour of leading him instead for a little while. Peter lounges against the barre while snapping photos of them with different filters.

Peter knows next to nothing about dancing, but when the next track is a Vera Lynn song, he sees the instant they switch and Steve’s leading instead, eyes wide. Their bodies don’t change positions but their posture does, the way their feet pivot, the relaxing of Nat’s hand on his shoulder.

And though Peter _also_ knows next to nothing about Steve’s life before the ice, he senses that there is something monumental about this event, the simple sight of Steve dancing to a tune as old as he is. A million yearbook photos of memories that no one but Steve and Bucky will ever know about.

All three of them hush, the sanctuary of this easy, swaying moment glass thin and stronger than steel.

Though Nat is oh-so petite compared to Steve’s brawny arms, _he’s_ the one about to break at any second and she’s the one holding his heart upright. Nat’s eyes are all for Steve. He doesn’t cry, but somehow his bleak, bleeding expression hurts worse to behold.

It hits Peter in a dizzying, illogical rush—he wants to be just like his parents when he’s older. For they are not just strong in body, also some of the most compassionate and generous people he’s ever met.

He may not have learned to dance today, but he got to witness something so much more important.

“Getting the idea?” Nat calls over her shoulder.

Peter steals one last photo, eyes mellow. “I think I’ve learned everything I need.”

Natasha hums in response. The song is still going, but she stops their gentle, rocking thing to search Steve’s eyes.

He musters a smile, and for the first time in weeks—it’s genuine.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Reaching up on tip toes again, Nat plants a ruby shining kiss upon Steve’s cheek and he nearly breaks.

She frames his face with her hands. “For you? Any time. I’m just honoured that you let me have the first dance.”

Steve’s eyes are very serious for his next words, shot through with such heat and kindness that it breaks through some of the perpetual ice in his face. “I can’t think of anyone better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you were wondering, the song they're dancing to is called "Now is the Hour" by Vera Lynn. I almost used "Autumn Leaves" or "Harbour Lights," because the lyrics are so quintessentially Steve, but they're not waltzes!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce smiles at the half-awake jumble. “Yes, Steve. Now that Peter’s acting like a normal teenager, they’ve decided now is the best time to panic. Go figure.”
> 
> “Normal is scary,” Steve murmurs, and the candid words are a shiv directly to the chest. Steve would never have said them if he wasn’t so sleepy, especially not with that far too young tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, lovely people! Here's to a new decade! (internal screaming)

“Red is just…red.”

“ _Excuse_ you. There’s magenta, wine red, cherry, scarlet, carmine—”

“Okay, okay, Mr. Runway. I get your point.” Peter physically takes a step back. “If I wanted this much of an in depth lesson, I would’ve gone to Tony. You’re freaking me out here.”

This finally— _finally_ —slows Clint down enough that he stops shucking shirts at Peter. They all look to be just…red…but apparently there’s some sort of sick order to the shading of them. Maybe Peter’s right brain isn’t online enough because he can’t tell much difference between auburn red and autumn red.

The archer’s face scrunches and then smooths. “Actually, why didn’t you ask Tony for this? Not to harsh on my own prowess, of course, but this seems like much more of a Tony Stark problem.”

Peter slumps onto the edge of Clint’s bed, thoroughly defeated before he’s even begun. “Tony’s idea of ‘looking nice’ would be too flashy for my taste, you know? You go on missions and stuff, so I figured your wardrobe of formal wear would be more demure.”

He glances around at the sea of shirts thrown onto the floor, duvet top, and dresser. “Although I see I might have been wrong.”

Clint’s eyes are pinched and he really does appear remorseful. “I thought you said red was your favourite colour. That means wearing it reflects your personality, right?”

“It is.” Peter runs the sleeve of a scarlet polo through his fingers. “But can we downgrade that theme just a bit? Maybe red cufflinks or something?”

Clint snaps his fingers with an excited expression. “I’ve got just the thing, champ.”

Whatever gem he’s thought of must never get worn because Clint has to go digging. His walk in closet is the size of Peter’s old bedroom back in Queens and it _still_ can barely hold all of his clothes. To be fair, at least sixty percent of it is mission wear, including scuba gear and tactical armour, but the sheer number of dress shirts alone is staggering. He could singlehandedly open his own consignment store.

Thankfully, Clint doesn’t need most of this mission wear anymore since he never goes on ops, at least for now.

It still doesn’t beat Tony’s epic wardrobe, but when looking at what a beer and football kind of guy Clint seems to be, at least on the outside, it catches Peter off guard.

 _Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Peter_.

He’s just relieved that Clint hasn’t asked one single question about why he needs a new dress shirt for this Friday. Peter voiced his query with shifty eyes and everything. He expected the full weight of international renowned super spy Clinton Barton to interrogate him to death or make him eat toothpaste covered tomatoes until he spilled his guts, the truth. That’s how it played out in Peter’s head, anyway.

But Clint just squinted at him—“you’re not going on some undercover op or illegal gambling, are you?”—and after Peter shook his head, he rolled with it.

“Cool, cool,” he’d said. “Everyone needs some nice shirts.”

Peter watches Clint disappear into the fog of cotton and camouflage. His slick crop of spikey hair is swallowed by a particularly billowy suit jacket.

“Uh…should I start sending in reinforcements?”

“Is that doubt I hear, Peter?”

“Not exactly. I’m just wondering if you’ve found a talking Lion in there somewhere by now—”

“Nope—aha! Here it is!” Clint ducks back out with a flushed and triumphant expression. He’s holding a much smaller hanger than Peter expected. “So, what kind of fancy occasion does a sixteen year old go to on a Friday night? I checked your school website so I know there aren’t any dances.”

_Aaaannnnd I spoke to soon._

Peter sits up straighter. “Just a night out. You know, as one does.”

“A night out.” His deadpan expression matches Nat’s to a fault. “Uh-uh. Sure, alright.”

Then Peter spies what’s on the hanger—a brocaded, shiny silk tie. It’s got a geometric sheen to it whenever Clint tilts it under the light, tiny Mobius strips. Best of all? It’s a deep, rich red colour.

“That’s so cool!” Peter gasps before he can stop himself. “Can I borrow it?”

Clint adopts that gooey ‘dad face’ while handing it over, the one he’s notorious for whenever Nathaniel does something cute or Peter falls asleep on the ceiling. “Borrow it? The tie’s yours, Pete.”

Peter’s eyes whip up. “You mean I can keep it?”

“Forever and ever,” Clint teases, ruffling his hair.

“Thank you!” Peter hugs him around the middle, eyes never leaving the tie. “Wow. It’s even got a subtle nerdy accent with the infinity symbols. Points for that.”

Clint concedes this with a wry look. “Which is the reason I never wear it, to be honest. That, and red is flashy for missions. Not exactly low key if the whole objective is to not be noticed.”

“It’ll be perfect,” says Peter.

“Perfect for…?”

Peter pokes at his stomach. “Nice try.”

“A tie that colourful is best paired with a simple white dress shirt.”

“You think so?”

“Absolutely.” Clint nods. He flips through his phone while lecturing. “You want it to stand out and not be too ‘loud’ on the eyes. Even crème or grey would work well.”

“Whoa. That’s enough of the fashion colours talk.”

“Suit yourself,” says Clint. “It’s a good skill to have though, I’m just saying. Especially if you need to figure out what colours complement your skin tone.”

Peter is just about to make an offhand, snarky comment about that one, when he looks down at the tie and comes to a horrifying realization. One that stops any triumph dead in its tracks.

“Hey, Clint, um—”

“Sorry, champ. I’ve got to take this call from Laura!” Clint darts out of the room with a thumbs up at Peter. “We’ll catch up later, yeah?”

“Yeah…” Peter waves, feeling sick. “Sure.”

Left alone in the disorganized, cozy bedroom, Peter eyes the tie with the same trepidation one would a bomb or a deadly, poisonous snake. This is all Ned’s fault, really, and Peter is fully prepared to give him an earful at school on Monday over it. Although…Peter knows that’s neither exactly true nor fair, that _he_ was the one who decided go along with it.

Peter can’t believe he’s been so stupid as to not have thought this through. What is he going to do now?

_I’m doomed._

* * *

Bruce figures they may as well just put up a sign that says ‘freaking out corner’ because that’s currently what this section of the kitchen is becoming.

He’s tired. It’s been a terribly long day, filled with more battles lost than won, both professionally, on this new project for the WHO, and in his mind. So when Bruce hears whispered voices, he wonders if he’s hallucinating those burning pots from a few nights ago.

He briefly considers just walking in the other direction and holing himself up in his room, but then there comes a faint, familiar whine and Bruce hurries his steps.

Instead of Peter, this time when Bruce rounds the hall it’s Tony, Pepper, and Nat standing by the island. Their voices are kept hushed, a hissed argument or brainstorming session happening in low volume. Tony gestures with a sharp motion of his hand and Pepper shushes him, apparently not for the first time.

Bruce sees why after a beat—Steve is asleep on the living room couch, yet again. His bare toes are just visible near the arm.

It’s becoming concerning, how much Steve sleeps and how little he eats, grief and depression linking hands in a way that raises Bruce’s internal alarm.

 _You’re no better_ , says a weaseled little voice in his mind.

One problem at a time.

“Are we having a party?” he whispers, hoping the sarcasm comes through.

It must, because Nat rolls her eyes. “Please tell Tony that Peter is entitled to his teenage privacy.”

“Tony…”

“Bruce.” Tony throws him a warning look and another of those whines. “Don’t you dare—”

“Tony,” Bruce says again, serene. “Peter is more than entitled to his privacy. Why is this even up for debate?”

“But you know!” Tony’s hands and tone turn pleading where they aim at Nat. “You know what’s going on and you won’t tell me!”

“It’s not my place.” Nat is calm but insistent.

“Tony,” Pepper hisses. “The only excuse we would have to nose into Peter’s private life is if it endangers him somehow. Natasha, does this sudden want to drive or dance compromise his security in any way?”

Nat’s lips do a funny kind of ripple that on a less guarded person, might be a held back laugh. “Not even a little bit. In fact, it’s healthy, Tony. Peter is _growing up._ ”

“Well, I hate it,” says Tony flatly and they all stifle chuckles.

Pepper eyes them with the sharp gaze of a negotiator. “So we’re all good here? We’ll leave Peter alone until he wants to tell us?”

Bruce shrugs. “Sounds good to me.”

“You were never part of this discussion, Master Chef,” Tony gripes, but he squeezes Bruce’s bicep with a warm look. “Fine. I respect Peter too much to snoop, though I want the record to show that I don’t like it.”

“You mean you’re too terrified of Pepper to try,” Nat clarifies.

Tony flips her off and Pepper swats his shoulder. In the homey banter, Bruce takes his leave and floats over to the couch. He’s careful to go slow and light, in case the noise has disturbed Steve.

But when he leans over the back of the couch, Steve’s eyes are still closed, lined, and his breaths are heavy. Something inside of Bruce’s stomach clenches at the worn sight of him.

He dares to reach over and press a loving palm to Steve’s forehead. It’s cool to the touch, a little clammy. A faint memory stirs to mind, of Bruce’s mother doing this to him when he had to stay home from kindergarten thanks to a bad flu. 

Without opening his eyes, Steve slurs, “Pete’s okay? I heard ‘em talkin’ about him.”

Bruce smiles at the half-awake jumble. “Yes, Steve. Now that Peter’s acting like a normal teenager, they’ve decided now is the best time to panic. Go figure.”

“Normal is scary,” Steve murmurs, and the candid words are a shiv directly to the chest. Steve would never have said them if he wasn’t so sleepy, especially not with that far too young tone.

A burning sensation washes through Bruce, all the way up to his ears. His voice is a whisper, this time from emotion. It’s also thick, in a way he would never have felt safe letting any of the team hear even a few years ago. “He’s okay, Steve. You both are.”

Steve is quiet for a long time. He blinks off at nothing, eyes half lidded and heavier than storm clouds gathering outside. Bruce thinks he’s ignored that last part, thrown it out the window along with all the other helpful self care tips the team keeps giving him. Not to mention Sam’s pushy, impromptu attempts to counsel his friend.

Then Steve says, very quiet, “Maybe.”

Bruce strokes the unwashed blond hair, marveling at how similar the action feels when he does it to Peter. The thought lodges Bruce’s heart somewhere up in his trachea, so that it’s impossible to speak for a few heartbeats. He never thought he’d get to have this, them, in any form.

“You’re allowed to…not be okay.” Bruce bends down with fiery, protective affection and watches Steve’s eyes slip shut, back into the No Man’s Land of tormented sleep. “That’s what we’re here for.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I miss her,” Peter whispers, lips a shaking mess. “So much, all the time.”
> 
> Thor leans down like they’re telling secrets. “Me too.”
> 
> And Peter understands that he’s not talking about May.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but like, honestly, why did they have to make it so hard to tie a tie? I know how, only after much Googling and dude friends showing me how when I was obsessed with ties in my preteen years. Not as easy as it looks! (Or maybe I just have terrible butter fingers.)

The Internet is a wonderful tool. It’s good for learning new skills and keeping in touch with events halfway around the world and listening to music he would otherwise never have heard.

It is not helpful for this, not even remotely.

Peter pounds the bed by his crossed legs with a frustrated _thump_. It’s not fair! None of this is fair!

It should be a simple thing. To everyone else it is definitely a simple thing.

But Peter, though his mind provides him with the obvious solution, cannot, physically cannot, ask one of his parents about this. There are six year olds who can do this with ease—Peter wants to be able to as well.

All that talk about wanting to learn…and now here is the easiest task so far being handed to him on a silver platter—and he can’t do it. This is small potatoes compared to driving, yet a tight hand clamps around Peter’s throat whenever he thinks about it, their pitying faces, having to admit that he doesn’t know how…

The voice in the video is chipper, some fashion student blogger with his gelled hair and pressed shirt. Peter looks at this polished man and feels like a failure. He sits in his bedroom, glaring at the laptop screen, and is surprised by the first hitch in his chest.

He shouldn’t be learning this off a YouTube video at all.

He wants, he needs…

The first tear falls into the mushed noodle of red tie in Peter’s hands. A limp, sad pile of forgotten dreams.

_How did I ever think this plan was a good idea? That it could actually work?_

And suddenly, though Peter started this whole thing that day at school, he doesn’t want it. His eyes go wide at the next, silent sob. He’s been expecting some sort of crisis since this whole thing started but now that it’s here, he feels blindsided.

Peter covers his eyes with a shaky hand.

Except the sobs don’t stay silent. They’re soft, but like hiccuping, he can’t stop them if he tried. He does try, in fact, with no success.

Footsteps pass by the door a few times before halting, and Peter’s cheeks heat up. He doesn’t want anyone finding him bawling like a baby.

Still, he doesn’t move or close the laptop or look up from his lap when the door creaks open and soft footfalls meander into his room.

The fact that whoever it is doesn’t speak right away is a dead giveaway. Peter sniffs. Then the bed dips and with the dramatic difference in weight, he springs a little.

Much like Steve, Thor has barely spoken anything since returning from Asgard. Peter’s heard the rushed highlights—father dead, stopped takeover plot by his secret sister, they barely saved his people from extinction and now they have to rebuild their home from scratch—but Thor is a ghost on his best days. For being such a big and lively person, he’s a church mouse.

Other than the time Tony, as tactfully as he could, told Thor about Siberia and what happened to Peter.

Peter tries not to think about the property damage alone from that incident.

Or how Thor took Peter up in burly, trembling arms and just held him close for an hour. Thoroughly examined his legs even though they’re working fine now. How he checks on Peter in the night sometimes, in his haunting of the halls.

Peter sighs.

Thor’s eyes are forlorn too. They flick from the screen back to the tie crushed in Peter’s fists, and he doesn’t say a word.

“It…‘s not fair.” Peter wipes his nose on his sleeve. “May was supposed to teach me how, you know, since Ben couldn’t.”

Thor thinks this one over for a long, long time. The video isn’t paused, but it’s muted, and they watch the fashion blogger go through the motions again until he can stand back with a ‘ta-da!’ flourish of his hands to reveal the snazzy Windsor knot of his tie.

“I thought you knew already,” Thor murmurs at last, just a hair above a whisper. “You wore a black one to her funeral.”

Peter sniffs, still hiccuping on lost breaths. Always trying to catch the next one, forever reaching.

“Tony tied it for me.” Peter explains this in a voice that is somehow dead and buzzing with sharp emotion, all at once. “How stupid is that? I have my learner’s permit now and I can’t even tie a tie.”

Thor glances him. He’s gaunt, cheeks ashen with lack of sleep, and yet his eyes are piercing with that perceptive intelligence Peter has always admired him for.

“I can’t tie one either,” he says.

And _that’s_ a little bit funny, in an absurd way that makes fresh tears leap to Peter’s eyes. That the only two people in this entire freaking compound who can’t tie a tie are crying together, huddled in the dark.

The truth of that thought hits home a split second later, the faint tears that continue to get lost in Thor’s beard. Peter has never seen the immutable man break before. There’s something captivating about it, the same devastated absorption as watching a five car pile up. He can’t look away.

“I miss her,” Peter whispers, lips a shaking mess. “So much, all the time.”

Thor leans down like they’re telling secrets. “Me too.”

And Peter understands that he’s not talking about May.

“I don’t want to do this without out her.” Peter wipes his cheeks and scowls when it doesn’t do a thing to stop the flow. “I didn’t think this type of life event or whatever, of all things, would be so hard without May.”

Thor, normally such a tactile person, doesn’t initiate any physical contact at these vulnerable words, shocking Peter out of his misery enough that he sits up and stops the video.

“Thor?” Peter hesitates to ask, hand feathering over the demigod’s knee. “Are you…is there anything I can do?”

Thor doesn’t snap out of it, nor does he offer any false words of comfort. There is no brusque pronouncement of self sufficiency, particularly since he doesn’t come from that kind of culture.

Instead, all Thor says is, “Why don’t we learn how to tie it together?”

A curl falls in front of Peter’s eyes when he tilts his head to really take in the whole of Thor’s wan face. He seems genuinely interested in learning the nuances of neck ties with Peter.

“Okay.” Peter hops up to open one of his dresser drawers, digging around for a spare blue tie. “Here, you can try this one.”

Thor takes it and runs the silky fabric along his palm. He swallows a few times.

“This is a beautiful colour.” He manages a lilt around his eyes that, if followed all the way through, would be a smile. “Nearly the exact same shade as my mother’s favourite cape.”

“Really? Orange was May’s favourite colour, but she wore blue sometimes.”

Peter sits back down next to him, closer than before. He clicks subtitles on the video so they can retain this peaceful, sad quiet and still try the steps. There seems to be some metaphor for remembering how to tie it, something about chasing a rabbit down a hole…

Thor slides the tie around his neck, loose enough that he can peer down and watch his hands to see if they match the ones in the video. Peter tries too, and though the sequence makes perfect sense, he can’t seem to mirror the motions.

He huffs in frustration. “Mine looks like a soggy ball of yarn!”

“I think you loop it this way,” Thor points out, reaching over to switch the direction of Peter’s knot. “That way there’s space to tuck the smaller end out of sight.”

Peter attempts this and still fails.

“No, no. Here, let me…”

Thor bats Peter’s hands out of the way so he can demonstrate, in exaggerated slow motion, how to cinch the fabric around itself. His face is set in concentration, a tendril of blond hair falling out of its ponytail, mouth twisted in determination. Then he takes the whole thing apart and starts over. He’s gentle so as not to accidentally tug on Peter’s neck and his rough fingers are warm when he takes Peter’s hands and guides them through it.

“I believe this is correct. Right, Peter?” Then Thor seems to notice Peter’s unblinking gaze on his face. “Peter?”

Peter looks at this man who has lost so much, who has every right to be bitter and angry and spiteful just because he can and life has been so cruel at every turn. And yet he’s still kind, still here trying to figure out this dumb neck tie with an adopted kid he could just as easily have kicked to the curb.

“May was a terrible cook,” he blurts.

Thor looks as startled by this declaration as Peter feels.

Then Thor’s hovering smile becomes a real, small one. “So was Mother, a much better fighter than a chef. We never let her near the kitchen.”

“Sometimes I can still smell it and…and I _miss_ the burnt smell, even though I hated it while she was alive.” Peter can’t stop the words, vomited straight from that throbbing inside his chest. “It was awful and we had takeout to replace that ruined food. But it was May’s and it was home. I love my new life…but sometimes everything just feels icky.”

“Icky?”

“All inside my body,” says Peter, gesturing to his torso.

The bleak set to Thor’s eyes, coupled with the way he sits back, blares out the truth—that he knows exactly what it is and doesn’t want to tell Peter.

Grief is a funny thing, Peter has quickly learned. Some days are the happiest he’s ever been in the entirety of his life, so filled with joy that it’s like stretching a muscle as far as it will go and discovering new limits. Other days, he wonders if he’ll die just putting one more foot in front of the other.

Some days, he longs for the smell of burnt food.

“Does it get easier?” Peter whispers, fervent with desperation. There has to be some magic cure for these kind of hunger pains, starving for a time that doesn’t exist anymore. “Do those memories go away, all the bad images?”

This time, Thor is in motion before Peter even finishes speaking. He wraps an arm around Peter’s back and pulls him flush to his side, hand across his chest. He leans down so his lips are in Peter’s hair.

“Easier? No, little one. Losing family doesn’t get easier. And they don’t go away, not as long as you’ll live. Short of amnesia, those memories will have to be carried until the day you die.”

Peter’s lips start up again, shaking. It’s not the answer he wants, even if it is the truth.

Thor rocks them for a beat. “But there is one thing I’m learning, a little at a time—that one day you will look back and those memories will cause joy instead of pain.”

The breath catches in Peter’s chest.

Thor pats it once, a rumble of something warm, sad, and nostalgic in his own. “Someday it will bring you comfort to recall what you shared with that person. The sorrow never fully dies, but the panic and agony will.”

“You mean it?” Peter asks, voice serious.

Thor answers in an instant. “Of course. And guilt is not a way to honour the dead.”

Peter ducks his head. Only Thor can figure him out so quickly, the struggle that he can’t find words for. Even after his muteness passed, sometimes Peter has trouble getting the words from his brain to his mouth and Thor can always read the silence, every time.

“It just doesn’t feel right,” Peter insists, “Living my life and moving ahead without her. Like enjoying it is bad or something.”

Thor’s other arm joins the first, folded snuggly right over top of Peter’s heart. Peter expects him to say something along the lines of, ‘wouldn’t May want you to enjoy life?’ or ‘she’s smiling down on you wherever you go’ or something else that sounds straight out of a self help book.

But Thor just shrugs and says, “Then take her with you.”

Peter freezes. His brain spends a few minutes in a stupor over that sentiment and what it must mean. Is it a Norse colloquialism or some Asgardian rite? Will this involve hair braiding?

Thor must see his confusion, because he points to the dresser. “Did Lady May have any items she wore to feel special or ways of dressing up?”

Peter thinks about that and Thor nods, like he can hear Peter’s musings. “People live on in things they loved, Peter, whether they be heart family, like you, or objects.”

None of May’s clothing was kept after the funeral, both because Peter knows she would have wanted it donated to those in need and because he can’t bear to look at them. Mostly what had been saved are photo albums and old home movies.

“Wait.” Peter stands abruptly. “The bracelet.”

Thor trails along after him, watching Peter rife through the top drawer. Inside, next to some socks, is a small shoe box of old photos and keepsakes. “Bracelet?”

“There it is!” Peter pulls out the simple gold band, the width of Peter’s thumb, the outside engraved with a quote and inside with Ben and May’s wedding date. “Ben gave this to her on their ten year anniversary. Whenever she had a big presentation or fancy event, she’d wear it out.”

Thor reverently accepts the bracelet and turns it around to read the words. “‘If your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches.’ Is this a quote from one of Earth’s great poets? An ancient proverb, perhaps?”

Peter laughs, sheepish, and is surprised by that too. Perhaps this is how thinking of May will feel one day. “It’s from a movie, actually. _The Princess Bride_ —it was Ben and May’s favourite. They watched it every year on their anniversary and sometimes he’d say, ‘as you wish,’ like it was a romantic gesture or something. Super cheesy.”

“I think it is beautiful,” says Thor, completely serious, eyes bright and fond where they read the words again. “Will you wear it Friday?”

 _Word gets around fast_. Peter isn’t as bothered by this as he would have been a week ago. _I wish you could see them all, May, how crazy and absurd and amazing these people are._

In answer, Peter takes his tie out of the loop and ties it again, going slowly and carefully. After a few tries, it looks halfway decent. Then, he slips on the bracelet and holds out his arms.

“How do I look?”

Thor turns that warm gaze onto Peter. “You know, when I came back it was with the belief that I’d lost everything, that there was nothing left to my name and that I had to rebuild from the ashes. I was mourning.”

 _You still are,_ Peter thinks.

“How lovely it is to be proven wrong,” Thor finishes, in a choked, sincere voice that has Peter’s chest doing a funny flip flop. “I still have a family and a son.”

“Are we going to have to hug it out?”

“I think we are.”

“No but seriously, how do I look? Because there are stakes riding on this Friday. _Stakes_.”

Thor grins while tugging Peter into his big, ozone smelling arms. They cling to each other as only two orphans coming in from the cold can. “Perfect, young Peter. Perfect.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pushing at Steve is not a wise choice, but maybe he needs just as much help right now as Peter does.
> 
> “I’ll try out this enjoying life thing,” he offers, “if you will too.”

Later that night, after everyone else has gone to bed or to their labs, Peter wanders out into the living room at the low sound of the TV. There’s a documentary on space travel playing, but Peter can tell Steve isn’t really watching it.

Dried tear tracks line his face.

Neither is Bucky, where he lounges with Steve’s feet in his lap. He’s half slumped, elbow resting on Steve’s hip and cheek propped on his knuckles. At least he’s halfway interested, eyes darting to watch video footage of the Hubble Telescope being prepped and launched. He seems fascinated by the photographic technology in this century, the long range composites of objects at the outer reaches of the galaxy.

Since Peggy’s death, Bucky has started visiting once a week instead of once a month, and Peter can tell he had another ‘neural mapping’ session with Bruce because dark, exhausted circles ring the man’s eyes. He’s a zombie; he doesn’t even react when Peter rounds the couch and stands in front of them. Bucky just tilts his head to see better.

Ironically, Peter is wearing a NASA shirt over his sleep pants so he shrugs and sits on the floor. It takes some shimmying and a blanket stolen off Thor’s Lazyboy to feel comfy. He wraps the fleecy material around his shoulders, leaning back.

This places his head near Steve’s chest, so he’s careful not to lean too far and invade the man’s bubble of space. His very sad bubble of space at the moment.

But after a few minutes of them all just not really watching the screen, there comes the squeak of skin on leather. Steve grunts, shifting around. An arm slides down over Peter’s left shoulder and back up to his right.

Peter clutches at it with tentative fingers.

He doesn’t have to check who it belongs to, for even if he didn’t know who was laying there, he knows the particular feel of those long, artistic fingers like he knows the sound of his own heartbeat. They’re thawing, weighted, and they have held the broken pieces of Peter’s heart together more times than he can count.

Maybe it’s time to return the favour.

Peter finds, suddenly, that he wants to—with a desperation that steals his breath. Anything to ease the austere lines around Steve’s tired eyes.

Peter tucks his knees tight to his chest, propping his chin on the soft, feathery blond hair of Steve’s forearm. He rubs it slowly, hoping it will comfort Steve and maybe himself, just a bit. The room is warm, and Bucky is humming along faintly to trumpets in the documentary soundtrack, and Steve’s gloomy breathes are a lullaby against Peter’s right cheek…

His eyes instantly grow heavy.

To cement this drift into dozing land, Peter reaches over and touches the top of Bucky’s foot. Although enhanced hearing means Peter can hear everyone’s heartbeats within two floors, sometimes what he needs is the physical sensation of pulsing against his skin.

_Th-thump…th-thump…_

After a few moments of deep breathing, his heartbeat almost matches the pace of Steve’s, where he can feel it clearly in the hand on his shoulder. Being younger, Peter’s pulse is faster than the two men, and he’s amazed to feel that Bucky and Steve have almost the exact same resting heart rate. They pitter-patter in a dazzling counterpoint.

Or perhaps they’ve known each other for so long that their bodies do too, synchronizing with that subconscious intention of close friends.

 _They both knew her_ , Peter realizes. He imagines if he and Ned lost MJ, how it would feel to be the only two people in the world to carry that loss so deeply. _You can run from a lot of things, but not memories._

Peter thinks of what Thor said to him and gently squeezes Steve’s arm. “She was lucky to have you. Both of you.”

Bucky hums an amused, kind sound this time and wiggles his toes so it bobs Peter’s hand. Metal fingers reach down to ruffle his hair. Peter grins.

Steve must feel the change on his face, though he can’t see it, because he slides forward to kiss the back of Peter’s curls. Peter tries to imagine it, being almost a century old but trapped inside a body paused in its mid twenties. To never wear that wisdom, heartbreak, and experience on his face in a way that is cathartic when interacting with the world.

“Normal is kinda overrated,” Peter whispers.

Steve murmurs an agreement. “It really kinda is.”

Peter runs his top teeth over his bottom lip, back and forth like a typewriter. He weighs in his head everything that is starting to make sense and some of what doesn’t, even now, even after almost two years living with this new family. They’ve done so much for him and he knows he’ll never find the end of that love.

Pushing at Steve is not a wise choice, but maybe he needs just as much help right now as Peter does.

“I’ll try out this enjoying life thing,” he offers, “if you will too.”

Bucky’s foot stiffens under Peter’s hand and the fingers stop. Peter frowns, unsure of the reason for this, until he peers back over his shoulder and sees Bucky’s eyes on Steve, furrowed and troubled.

Then Peter feels it too—a wet spot growing on his right shoulder.

_There you go again, Parker. Always saying the wrong thing!_

“Sorry, Steve. I didn’t mean it like that…”

Steve’s arm tightens. His voice comes out surprisingly steady. “No, son, no. I’m just glad you didn’t wait too long like I did.”

Peter is suddenly, righteously furious on Steve’s behalf, scowling. Who told him these lies? “You didn’t wait too long. There is no ‘right time’ for this stuff, and your limits aren’t wrong just because they’re not like everyone else’s.”

The two older men are stunned speechless and Bucky’s hand finds his hair again, just resting on it this time.

“Well there you go, Stevie,” says Bucky in a slow drawl. “One beanpole sixteen year old got you to listen to what I’ve been telling you for _decades_.”

“Not sure I remember how to enjoy anything,” Steve finally admits, and in the dark, balmy living room, it almost feels like a cloister confessional. Like if they say it too loud someone will come and start pointing fingers.

“Me neither.” Bucky’s voice is flippant and so affectionate that Peter squeezes his foot on instinct. “But count me in. I’ve hidden myself away for long enough. We’ll go to a ball game or something like normal families do, acclimatize to a world that isn’t at war. What do you say to that, Steve?”

Steve is silent for a few minutes. On screen, the International Space Station is being featured, an astronaut spinning around near the viewing window, where a teeny tiny blue view of Earth is going by. He’s Canadian, and he’s got a guitar to sing songs to school children living streaming the moment. His pick goes floating by the window.

Their minuscule planet, so filled with mayhem and beauty.

“I don’t need a new normal.”

Peter’s face falls at the words and Bucky swears softly around a sigh. Peter thought this would be something they could do together, that he wouldn’t have to face this next hurdle alone. Of all people in this compound, he figured Steve could relate to it the most.

But then Steve hunches close and wraps his other arm around Peter too. “I don’t need a normal because I already have one—you _are_ my new normal, Peter. You and the team and this freezer burned best friend I’m getting reacquainted with.”

“Watch it, Rogers.”

Peter laughs while they smack lightly at each other’s knees. Around the kerfuffle, Steve plants another kiss on Peter’s head.

“Steve?”

“Yeah, Frodo?”

“She’d be proud of you, you know. How far you’ve come.”

The play fighting stops so Steve can gasp out a painful sound. Then Bucky’s flesh hand joins Steve’s on the boy’s shoulder.

“I do know,” Steve whispers. “I really do.”

“I mean, she’d probably give you a tongue lashing too,” Bucky reasons, his other hand grabbing a blanket off the back of the couch. He throws it so it clocks Steve right in the face. “For all the life threatening stunts you used to pull on a daily basis.”

Steve huffs a wet laugh, pulling the blanket down over all three of them. “Probably, yes, but only if you admit that she’d ream you too.”

“Oh for sure.” Bucky doesn’t even hesitate. “Though I’m an angel compared to you.”

“You once jumped in front of a crashing helicopter! With a _grenade_ in your hand!”

“I really should thank you, Peter.” Bucky ignores Steve with the ease of long practice and finishes tucking the blanket around them to his satisfaction. “You finally got him to retire. No more getting shot or jumping out of airplanes into the ocean—I’m glad _those_ days are over.”

Steve and Peter’s fingers get tangled around each other, gripped in love and fear and anticipation. Son against guardian. Peter, at last, lets go of his guilt and feels like Friday might not be something worth dreading, even with all the nerves it will bring.

Steve squeezes their joined hands. “Me too, Buck. Me too…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points if anyone recognized my reference to absolutely rad lad astronaut Chris Hadfield!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey, Tony?”
> 
> “Mmm? Yeah, small fry?”
> 
> Peter rests his head back. “What was being sixteen like for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, lovely people! Your comments and notes have been so encouraging.

“For the last time—”

“I’ve got it, just like I said two whole seconds ago.”

“Are you even listening to my instructions?”

“Of course! Why would I be doing this otherwise?”

“Well, seeing as we’re about to hit a stop sign—”

Peter’s eyes widen and he slams on the brakes. Just in time too: a father and his three children, twin boys and a younger sister, scamper along the cross walk. It takes a moment for Peter’s racing heart to calm. He puts a hand to his chest.

Peter compares that smiling father with Tony in the passenger’s seat next to him, sipping an iced coffee and looking thoroughly unimpressed. One eyebrow rolls upwards in slow motion.

He’s stressed too—Peter can hear his raging blood pressure—but he hides this one better.

“Would another sorry help?” Peter offers in a small voice. Any anger is gone, replaced by embarrassment, shame, and no small amount of defeat. He’s never going to master this by Friday.

He doesn’t realize he voiced this out loud until Tony snorts. “No, you’re definitely not.”

Peter pulls over in an empty gym lot and shoves the stick into park. He scowls at the GT’s steering wheel. “Crud.”

“You finally gonna tell me what’s so important on Friday?” Tony wheedles.

“Not a chance.”

“I respect that.”

Peter glances at him in surprise. “You do? I figured you’d have started a formal investigation by now.”

“Don’t tempt me.” But around Tony’s muttering, he smiles. He flicks Peter’s hair. “You really are doing better at driving, Pete. Especially since we’ve only been at it a week. Just not well enough to drive that shiny new Bentley I bought for you last summer.”

“Fair enough.”

And it is. Peter places himself in Tony’s shoes and has to admit he wouldn’t want a kid driving a seventy thousand dollar car he’d gifted him either. At least not yet. Peter feels his hopes steadily dwindle, for the prospect of taking an Uber to this just doesn’t sit as well with him.

“You’re not allowed to drive by yourself anyway,” Tony rightly points out. “Even if you did take this car on Friday, one of us would have to go with you.”

Peter blinks. He hadn’t even remotely thought of that fact. Great. This will make things ten times more difficult even if he can sneak out in one of the garage cars! There has to be a solution.

 _I’ll find a way_ , Peter promises himself. _I won’t have transportation be the thing that ruins this._

Sloshing around the last of ice and diluted coffee, Tony chews the green straw while answering a text on his phone. He’s at ease, slumped with one knee propped near the gear shift, sunglasses a little crooked on his face, linen blazer cuffs rolled up to different lengths.

Peter takes a moment just to enjoy the disheveled sight of him, this once closed off man now so patient and generous with his time when it comes to people he loves. It takes a few minutes, but finally his stress levels drop and his pulse calms.

“Hey, Tony?”

“Mmm? Yeah, small fry?”

Peter rests his head back. “What was being sixteen like for you?”

This startles Tony enough to look up and directly at Peter. A smile appears on his lips, but combined with the high, wrinkled brow, Peter can tell it’s not really amusement. There’s something bitter and wry in the man’s expression.

“Ha.” Tony says it deadpan. He twirls the phone in his hand, an anxious motion. “Nothing like your experience, let me tell you that. I was at MIT by that point, for one thing, and well…that is its own can of worms. Do as I say, not as I did.”

Peter frowns at the thought of Tony without parents who cared whether he was okay from one day to the next. He’s heard enough of Rhodey’s college stories to feel no love lost on Howard, in particular. He doesn’t sound like the kind of man one would ever want for a grandfather. Peter knows, somewhere down in that cherry pit of his gut, that they wouldn’t have gotten along well, if Tony even let them meet in the first place.

“But then I wasn’t paralyzed for four months,” Tony tacks on, in a weak attempt at levity.

Rather than falling for the distraction, Peter draws from his own reserves of patience. He suddenly needs an answer to this, desperately. “Of course, but what did it _feel_ like? Being a normal teen?”

Tony’s eyes glaze into the past for a moment, and then he shakes himself. He leans closer. “That’s just it, Pete. I didn’t have a normal childhood either. What did it feel like? Drunk, angry, or lonely, take your pick. I cycled between those three states constantly. Sometimes I drank because I was angry about _being_ lonely—three for one package deal.”

This time Peter grins, a little. A very tiny and sympathetic grin. “I’m sorry, Tony.”

Tony looks genuinely stunned. “For what?”

“For how much you were hurting back then.”

Tony’s eyes pool into something bright and humour filled. He grasps the back of Peter’s neck for a moment, squeezing fondly. “You have such a good heart, Peter. And you’re doing great, _so_ great at this.”

“At what?” Peter makes a face. “Driving? Because that’s a solid no.”

There’s a low hum that Peter realizes is Tony trying not to laugh. “I mean at being you, your age. Just being a kid.”

“It’s hard sometimes,” Peter confesses, eyes on his hands. “Sometimes I just want to run away or disappear or lock myself in my room and never come out.”

 _Just trying is hard sometimes._ And Peter does try, so, so hard.

“I know.” Tony matches his quiet tone. “But you’re easily the most amazing at it I’ve ever met.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Tony laughs outright this time. “You’ll understand someday, kid. Now get in the back. I’m taking over on driving duties.”

“Why can’t I ride shotgun?” Still, Peter does as he’s told and climbs into the back seat.

“Because we’re picking up Pep from a meeting downtown before we head home.”

And Peter has to admit, Tony really is good at this whole smooth driving technique, the way he can release the wheel slowly enough through his hand that it doesn’t judder the car. Peter takes notes on the timing of braking versus acceleration speed when banking a sharp corner.

At some point, Tony sticks on a Rod Stewart song and Peter tries to sing along with Tony, also marveling at the man’s caramel tenor voice.

Something else he’ll have to ask for lessons on.

Tony pulls up to the curb in front of a brownstone office. He doesn’t bother texting, just waving through the window. A familiar figure, tall and slender as a lodestone pillar, waves back.

“Hello, my boys.” Pepper, in a crème pantsuit and blazer slung over one arm, emerges from the front door, bringing with her a blast of air conditioned cold. It’s refreshing compared to the sunny spring day. “How was the driving lesson? No crushed parallel parking cones, I trust?”

Peter sighs while Tony snickers. “That was _one_ time.”

He’s about to say more, but suddenly Tony jumps out of the driver’s side door and around the front of the car. The motion is sudden, startling Peter enough that he straightens to look around for a threat. There’s no fear on Tony’s face, so nothing dangerous or alarming as the culprit.

Surprised, Peter ducks down to watch through the windshield at what, aside from a crisis, could possibly require such urgency.

What tips him off first is Pepper—who throws Tony an exasperated, loving look and waits for Tony to round the car. It’s a knowing look too, like this has happened a million times before and it’s just as endearing as the first. Juggling her briefcase, she pecks him on the lips while he opens the passenger side door for her.

“Thank you, gallant idiot.”

Tony smiles, ushering her in with a sweep of his arm. “Any time, CEO Barbie.”

They mutually swat at each other, laughing, and Peter finally clues in that his mouth is hanging open. He closes it, eyes keen on the way the couple holds hands as long as possible, until the very last second. However, Tony waits for Pepper to get settled and tucked inside before swinging it shut.

Once he’s back in the driver’s seat, he doesn’t start the car until he sees both Pepper and Peter buckled up. It’s painfully tender, and on any other day it would fizz bubbles all the way through Peter’s stomach.

“We all ready?” Tony asks, flicking his blinker on to pull into traffic.

Peter nods, wonder at what he just watched stealing his tongue.

Inside—

_No, I am not. I’m not ready even a little bit._

* * *

“I’m telling you, Ned! I don’t have that kind of money and I straight up _refuse_ to ask.”

A pause.

“That won’t work either! I’ve done that math a million ways and I think this whole thing was a bad idea. I’ve only got two days left!”

Another beat, though this one isn’t quiet, filled with the _grrrgghhh_ growl of Peter’s frustration.

“Technically this was your fault, Ned— _you_ put me up to it. Alright, alright, so I agreed and that makes it my fault too. But it’s not going to work anyway, I know you know that. Maybe I should just call it quits…”

Tony pauses in passing down the hall only to realize Clint has stopped too. The archer is dressed for a workout in shorts and an old T-shirt, headphones around his neck. But he’s frowning and even though he hasn’t started, he’s already sweating. Tony says nothing, just huddling up so he’s shoulder to shoulder with Clint and leaned forward to hear better. It’s somewhat of a vindicating consolation that even though Clint’s eyes could put a sniper rifle to shame, his ears are plain old human just like Tony’s.

The two men stand near Peter’s bedroom door, tucked slightly out of view should Peter in his pacing—or at least that’s what the back and forth stereo conversation sounds like—spot them.

“How long has he been on the phone?” Tony murmurs.

Clint makes a so-so motion with his head. “Half an hour maybe? I’ve only been here for a few minutes but it’s a weird conversation and he’s freaking out.”

Tony casts his friend a skeptical look. “Is eavesdropping on our teenage son really the mature solution here?”

“Probably not, but I'm not leaving.”

“Me neither,” Tony admits with a grin, amazed once again to have people in his life so similar and so different in personality all at the same time.

However, when he peeks inside the room his face falls. “Uh…where _is_ Peter?”

Clint, with a smirk, juts his chin up to the ceiling. Crouching and craning his head, Tony can just see the faint outline of their lanky boy.

His mop of hair, puffed from being upside down, passes close by the doorframe and both Clint and Tony flatten themselves to the wall in an effort to go unnoticed. They watch Peter pace along his ceiling for a few more minutes, still muttering and flustered.

Finally, Peter settles in the corner, sticky feet braced along either wall, over his desk.

“I assumed this was some outing or hobby he was embarrassed to tell us about,” Clint whispers, eyes wide. “But now I’m not so sure. What could he possibly need money for that our allowance wouldn’t cover?”

Tony feels that same concern slipping into his chest. He and Clint stare at each other, worry mounting, and Tony steals one more last look at Peter’s apprehensive face. It’s lit faintly by the phone at his ear, free hand gesticulating with wild slashes to either side.

Money is something Peter rarely spends. His allowance payments are based on how much work he does for Bruce and Tony in the labs or certain extra chores Hill gets him to help with around the work side of the compound.

It should be _more_ than enough for a simple hangout with friends or a show.

“What on earth are you doing?” asks a loud voice.

“Sshhh!” Clint and Tony hush in unison.

Then they turn and see Pepper standing there, utterly bemused. She’s got a clipboard in one hand, eyes wide. Tony loses some colour, for she looks truly affronted on Peter’s behalf.

Clint doesn’t have the same qualms, though he possesses enough grace to look sheepish. “Something’s up with Peter.”

Pepper puts a hand on her hip. “Have you raised Peter well since you took him in?”

Clint and Tony side eye each other, sensing a trap.

“Yes,” says Tony at length. “We’ve tried to.”

“Then trust him enough to let him come to you if he genuinely needs help.”

Mutinously, Clint mutters, “I want to help him _now_.”

Pepper softens. “I know. But usurping Peter’s autonomy is not the best way to earn his faith in you. He’ll talk to us if he’s in trouble.”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath, listening again to Peter’s rambling at Ned.

By the sounds of it—Peter already is.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something in Pepper’s eyes softens. The hand she still has on his arm kneads a touch. “Do you know what made me really, truly, know that I might have a shot with Tony?”
> 
> Peter purses his lips, a bit stiff.
> 
> Pepper smiles and it crinkles her nose. “He held my niece for the first time.”

Five minutes doesn’t sound like a long time. Five minutes is barely enough time to read a few pages of a book, half the time it takes to bake a dozen cookies. It’s a flash in the pan for most people.

Right now, it feels like an eternity.

It takes five minutes—three hundred _whole, entire seconds_ —just for Peter to work up his nerve and stop wringing his hands. To walk into the kitchen. It is vacant, everyone outside for one of Sam’s impromptu barbecues on the lawn, except for a lone figure on one of the island stools.

For once, she’s reading a magazine instead of expense reports, some article about using vegetable paste as a facial mask.

Peter focuses on all of these minute details to delay the moment he actually has to go up and talk to her.

Pepper is engrossed enough that Peter has to tap her arm to get her attention. He immediately springs back after he does so.

The woman’s head jolts up and her eyes flick around before they find Peter. “Oh. Hello, sweetie. Why aren’t you outside for some supper?”

 _This is more important_ , Peter thinks.

He shakes his head, brow scrunched, waving a hand.

Pepper scans his face. “What’s up?”

Peter isn’t sure how to answer in a way that encompasses all of ‘ _what,_ ’ all the little teeth nattering away at his chest, tiny predators of self doubt. He shuffles on one foot, then back to the other.

His hand floats upwards for a moment, gesturing and scratching at his temple all in one go. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

Pepper must see some of the confusion and struggle for she immediately pulls out the other stool and pats the cushion.

Relieved, Peter hops up beside her.

“I’ll admit,” says Pepper, “I have no idea what’s going on or what’s so special about Friday, but if it’s stressing you out this much, maybe talking about it will alleviate some of the anxiety.”

Peter lets out a big breath. “Actually, I have a question, and I think you’re the best person in this building to answer it.”

“Shoot. I’m all ears.”

For a moment, Peter balks. He can’t even begin to express how overwhelmed he is, all the details that need to be worked out so he doesn’t mess this up.

 _Start practical_.

“Pepper.” Peter takes in a measured, deliberate breath and is eternally grateful for the fact he has her full attention; she even closes the magazine. “How much would it cost to rent out Coney Island for a night?”

Somehow, even though Peter has seen her at work every day, the fact that Pepper Potts-Stark is responsible for _billions_ of dollars doesn’t hit until right that second. It strikes him fully when the only reaction Pepper gives to this over-the-top statement is a quirked brow.

Most people’s jaws would drop, or they would shout and demand to know what’s going on. Renting an amusement park is probably a slow day for someone who runs Stark Industries, small potatoes as events go.

Pepper hums a thoughtful sound.

“Probably at least a few hundred grand to start with,” she says calmly. “Though I would have to call around and get an actual estimate. I’m assuming you want to rent it out for privacy, to avoid line ups and things like that?”

Mouth dry, Peter nods again.

 _My allowance_ most definitely _will not cover that._

Pepper flips the magazine over so she can write on a blank section. Clicking her pen, she explains slowly. “The cost is usually based on how much money the park owners would lose if they were to close it for those hours and yet still pay the salaries of those who run the rides and concessions stands. Make sense?”

Peter watches her scribble out dollar figures. First, she starts with how many rides there are times the amount of hours rented and how much ride operators get paid on time sheet. She goes with four hours, and even for that short time, watching the expenses add up shocks Peter.

“…and then we look at how much food you’d…Peter? Are you okay, love?” She trails off at Peter’s twisting fingers.

“Yeah, I just didn’t think…” He points to a six figure number at the bottom. It’s almost half a million dollars already. “I had no concept of what it would take. I’m back at square one for ideas.”

There is a short silence, but it’s long enough when Pepper studies Peter’s face like that. She doesn’t pester or snoop, as she has every right to. She just watches him and then glances at her DIY expense report.

Abruptly, her eyes harden with determination, a hastily made decision that forms in an instant. “We can pay for it. Heaven knows Tony isn’t using our vacation fund any time soon.”

“What?” Peter pushes the magazine and the prospect away from himself. “No! The whole point is that I pay for this myself! I don’t want special perks just because of who my parents are.”

Pepper smiles, a slow one that only grows when she sees Peter’s blush. “You’re a very wise boy, Peter.”

He sighs. “I’m not so sure about that.”

With another hum, Pepper sits back. Peter takes her pen and scribbles out the whole thing, trying to banish it from his mind altogether. Will it work if he doesn’t do something like this? Will it matter? Pepper watches him with an expression of concern but does nothing to stop his scratching it out.

_Of course it will matter, Peter. Why else do you think this is going ahead in the first place?_

Still fidgeting with the pen, unable to look Pepper in the eye, Peter mutters, “Tony has a lot of money.”

Again, Pepper is unruffled. “Yes, he does. Gained through various and sundry means. Is that what you’re confused about right now? How personal finances work?”

Peter shakes his head. He looks at Pepper and thinks of yesterday, the simple act of Tony helping Pepper into his car and how they’d looked at each other. He can’t _stop_ thinking about it.

“What do you like about Tony?” It’s a point blank, rushed question, but even this doesn’t seem to phase Pepper.

She actually chuckles a bit. “That’s a loaded question. There are many thinks that irritate me about him and vice versa. Now, I can’t imagine waking up in the morning without him. He’s got the biggest, most vulnerable heart of anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life—and it keeps the fire inside me going.”

“What…” Peter has to start again, treading carefully. “What drew you to Tony, when you first met him?”

This time, Pepper gives the question some deeper thought. She is quiet for a moment. “Truthfully, I didn’t like Tony very much at all when I first met him.”

“Really?” Peter is slightly baffled by the answer. For his hypothesis to be correct, she should have been drawn to him right away. “I know it’s a silly question and I already kind of know the answer…but it wasn’t his money, was it?”

 _Now_ Pepper looks taken aback, grasping Peter’s arm. He finally sees surprise flicker across her face. “Oh goodness gracious, no! Not for a second. I had plenty of my own money, earned years before I ever laid eyes on Tony. I didn’t need anything from him like that.”

Instead of consolation, all Peter feels is a deep-seated misery, that this isn’t like a science formula he can solve in ten straightforward steps. There’s no manual for this kind of experience.

Peter runs a hand through his hair. “But what impressed you about him?”

“Peter—being impressed and being in love are two very different things.”

“What I mean is, why did you finally agree to go out with him? What made you say _yes_?” Peter blows out a strong breath that lifts a curl off his forehead. “Why in the world do girls say yes?”

Something in Pepper’s eyes softens. The hand she still has on his arm kneads a touch. “Do you know what made me really, truly, know that I might have a shot with Tony?”

Peter purses his lips, a bit stiff.

Pepper smiles and it crinkles her nose. “He held my niece for the first time.”

That certainly isn’t the Hallmark, grand moment Peter’s always thought of when looking at Tony and Pepper’s simple yet playful romance. He pictures fireworks and a daring rescue, maybe stopping a bomb Pepper is strapped to, not something so…ordinary.

“It was terrible,” Pepper goes on. “He’d never held an infant in his life and he was so scared and hungover that he nearly cried. My sister came this close to slapping him.”

Peter stares at her, making real eye contact for the first time since he sat down. “ _That’s_ what you liked about him? For real?”

“Believe it or not, yes. He even hand made her this super ugly doll house out of old car parts.”

“That’s…kinda pitiful.”

Pepper laughs. “It really was. But that day wasn’t so much about how well Tony did around a baby—which was horribly, by the way—but that he funneled one hundred percent of his attention, however little he had to spare, into my niece. That fear, at not hurting someone, told me everything I needed to know about his character. I knew he’d use the same carefulness with my heart.”

Admittedly feeling a little foolish, Peter takes his time rolling that one around. He leans back while absorbing the mental image and Pepper watches him with a perceptive look.

Could it be so obvious?

“I just find it hard,” Peter finally says the words out loud, in halting stops and starts. “The fact that everyone at school knows who my family is now and I’m not…I’m never sure if they like me for me or for…”

Peter swings a hand around to indicate the kitchen, the compound, and his very strange, privileged life in general.

“Tony worried about that too. It’s one of the many reasons he had trouble letting people get close to him.” Pepper tucks a strand of hair behind Peter’s ear. It feels so much like something May would do that tension immediately bleeds out of Peter’s shoulders. “But, honey—you are such a kind hearted person, and anyone would be lucky to have you.”

Peter rolls his eyes to avoid that sentiment. It's a distinctly Tony gesture he's picked up on. “You’re, like, legally obligated to tell me that.”

Pepper just continues stroking his hair. “You’ll have your hungover-while-holding-a-baby moment, Peter. I promise. Did this person treat you any differently when you suddenly got adopted by us?”

It takes some casting his mind back, quite far back, for Peter to answer honestly. His eyes widen a little. “No…no, she didn’t at all. I mean, she was nicer after May died, but she didn’t start acting weird or anything.”

“Then she said yes because she’s genuinely interested in you. And I think you know that. It’s what you’re really afraid of, isn’t it?”

Peter deflates. “I thought I had to do some big thing to prove I was worth her attention.”

Pepper’s hand stops moving, and then her soft fingers are enveloping his. She squeezes with a firmness he can visibly see her trying to rein in. “No, Peter. _No_. You do not need to buy someone’s time or attention—if you do, then it’s not love.”

“Tony buys you gifts though…?”

Pepper snorts a rueful laugh. “Yes, and I hate most of them. I still have that giant rabbit down in the garage. Gifts are supposed to be a declaration of love, a statement, not a transaction.”

“I get that, I guess.” Peter twitches and Pepper holds his hand in both her own now. “I saw you yesterday, the way Tony treated you.”

“Peter.” Pepper’s voice is honey warm and sizzling with humour all in one. “I don’t need Tony to open doors for me. It’s not something he does to be helpful or because he doesn’t think I can.”

Peter blinks hard. “I am so lost.”

Pepper rubs his knuckles with her thumb. “Tony did what he did yesterday because he likes to be near me. He opened the door as if to say, ‘I really missed you and I love you. I see that you’ve had a long day, so let me make this easier for you.’”

“I never got to talk to May about how to treat a significant other.” Peter mouth pulls into a slight frown before he glances up. “I know it shouldn’t be this hard, but…it all feels like too much.”

Pepper’s eyes fight a sad note. “Chivalry isn’t about whether someone is capable of doing something—chivalry is _supposed_ to tell someone that they’re worth it, that they’re so treasured that they should be treated as such.”

For some reason, Peter has never even connected these dots before. It’s always used as a derogatory thing, an old practice. He thinks of Tony’s behaviour in light of what Pepper said and it starts to make sense.

“Besides…all a significant other really wants from you is your attention and your care, to feel safe with you whether that be physically, emotionally, or mentally. Everything else falls into that category.”

Searching her eyes, Peter can’t see any teasing or lying. “You make it sound really simple.”

“Well.” Pepper sits back with a wink. “Tony and I have had a lot of practice. Love is a choice, Peter, not just an emotion. We’ve chosen to put each other first everyday and built a life around that.”

“One day at a time?”

“That’s the idea. You’ve got time, lots of time, to see where it goes. Just enjoy the moment.” Pepper leans forward again, this time from excitement. “Have you decided on a less dramatic date option than renting out a whole amusement park? Something uniquely meaningful to you both, perhaps?”

Now there’s an idea Peter hasn’t thought of. He cants his head, and realizes suddenly that the perfect choice has been right in front of him all along.

“You’re the best, Pepper, thank you.”

A mischievous look steals across her face. “I hope it’s been a good… _Pep_ talk.”

Peter groans. “That’s horrible, way worse than Clint’s dad jokes.”

“You’re so right, no thanks to Tony’s love of puns rubbing off on me. I was much funnier before I met him.”

But her eyes are sparkling and they’re both giggling and Peter feels like he can breathe properly for the first time in days. He senses, just for one weightless moment, that maybe May is laughing along with them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has no idea how to answer, devastated that they’ve been busted before he can even get out the door, when Bucky suddenly does an odd thing:
> 
> He takes both hands off the steering wheel and lays them in his lap.

_There. That’s as good as it’s going to get._

The red tie and its shiny Mobius strips finally look presentable after three attempts at knotting it. Peter has made sure not to cinch it too tightly to give his white collared shirt, black blazer, and jeans a half formal look. He doesn’t want to look uptight, after all.

Peter blinks at himself in the mirror. _Uh oh._ Do _I look uptight?_

“Gahhh.” Peter musses up his hair. He’s glad he didn’t gel the curls down, letting them coil freely in bizarre patterns that shine toffee gold in the low lighting of his bedroom. “This is hopeless.”

Looking at his reflection, he wonders just what someone else would see in him. How did this half baked dare from Ned work in the first place? Peter never anticipated that asking her out would actually be successful, would end in anything other than snarky rejection _._

His hand brushes over the bracelet…he struggles to remember how Ben and May first met, or even his biological parents for that matter, though he never heard many stories about them growing up.

Richard and Mary met as part of a symposium, if Peter is remembering correctly. Something to do with atomic particles. May used to joke they’d been ‘drawn into each other’s gravity.’ Ben would groan and she’d follow it up with an awful pun to keep her husband laughing.

That kind of easy going friendship, a stable relationship, seems _light_ years away from this scrawny boy standing in front of the mirror.

 _I’ll make them proud_ , Peter promises himself, and is surprised to find that he can’t pin down who he’s talking about. It’s a privilege to have had many parents love him over the years, more than most people get in a lifetime. _Because it’s a love to be shared._

This is a tugging he’s felt more and more lately, down to his marrow, the itch-under-your-skin need to pour that love back out somehow.

When Peter first came to live with the team, he’d thought that love would run out. It was finite. Surely they would dry up like a desert well. They’d get tired of Peter, send him back to Child Services to be with someone else and return to their lives.

Peter knows better now. It won’t run out—and there’s plenty to go around, even inside of him where it gushes out sometimes.

He nods his head once at his reflection and is pleased to note he’s only _mostly_ pale. Twin dots of colour shine high up on cheeks.

Now comes the hard part.

Peter peers out but everything is suspiciously silent. He tiptoes down the hall, wondering if he’s about to be ambushed or mobbed.

To get to the elevator doors, he has to pass the living room. It may as well be a den of lions for how on edge Peter is just approaching it. He holds his breath while rounding the corner.

Peter’s jaw about hits the floor when he sees almost everyone present, in one spot—

Natasha is playing on a Gameboy, upside down on the loveseat. Steve sits next to her, right side up and watching a baseball game on the big screen while munching through a plate of nachos. Thor, Pepper, and Clint have all claimed the biggest couch, discussing something about a ball’s terminal velocity to achieve a home run.

Bruce is cross legged on the floor, back to Clint’s legs where he sits in the middle, fidgeting with one of those twisted, metal puzzles and making faces at Thor’s terrible physics theories. Most likely parroted from bits and pieces Thor has picked up listening to Jane.

It’s so… _domestic._ And completely unlike them to act this nonchalant about it.

“Uh.” Peter pads slowly by. “You’re all hanging out together…on a Friday?”

Normally at least three of these people would be off with their families. Only Mondays are mandatory team family nights.

“Hey, Peter,” says Steve says in surprise, as if he couldn’t hear him coming the moment he stepped foot outside his bedroom door. “Bonding time is important, you know. Gotta hang out and reconnect sometimes.”

“Ri-ight.” Peter casts a suspicious look around the room but sees nothing amiss. They really are engrossed in the game. Natasha doesn’t even look away from her Pacman match, simply waving a hand. “I’m just going to head out then…”

Nobody comments on how dressed up Peter is or that he’s wearing cologne. In fact, other than a haphazard chorus of “see you, Peter!” and “have fun!” calls, nobody pays him much attention at all.

 _I can’t believe it was that easy_. Once alone in the elevator, Peter huffs out a relieved laugh. _Maybe they really are relaxing on the whole nosy and protective thing._

Confidence renewed, Peter steps off the elevator into the parking garage. One of the cars is already idling, a modest compact car this time. Peter doesn’t recognize the brand but at least it’s low profile, blending in like any other car on the road; it should do just nicely for his purposes tonight.

This is, Peter will admit, perhaps the tiniest bit dishonest. It’s a loophole in Tony’s instructions that he never, not even for a few minutes, drive a car by himself until he takes the official test.

_I am technically following the rules._

Peter smiles when he jogs up to the car and sees a figure in the driver’s seat. He’s dressed in ripped jeans and a long sweater, but the crew cut hair trim he’s been given since Peter last saw him is new.

Peter slides into the passenger’s side with a grin. “Thanks for doing all this.”

“I haven’t driven in years.” Bucky messes Peter’s hair even further. “It’s a learning experience for me just as much as it is for you. You clean up sharp, little man.”

“So do you! I’m digging the new look.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky smiles when Peter runs a hand over the sharp spikes of hair. “Steve did it. I don’t trust anyone with a razor near my neck anymore.”

They both go silent for a minute, thinking of those horrible days in the snow and on the plane to Siberia, alone and dying. Sometimes, when memories make Peter scared, he likes to just sit near Bucky, soaking up the warmth of him. Hearing his voice, feeling the combination of flesh and metal hands married to give him a hug.

Peter touches the hair one last time, this motion being for comfort. “I don’t blame you one bit. Steve did a great job.”

Bucky waits for his passenger to buckle up and then adjusts the mirrors. “I used to cut his hair all the time, since they couldn’t afford a professional. I figured it was about time he returned the favor, not that he’s much better in the style department.”

“Did you ever end up finding any purple dahlias? Purple is her favourite colour.”

Bucky reaches into the back seat and retrieves a whole bouquet of them, wrapped in clear foil. “Took some running around but I sure did.”

Peter is gobsmacked. “I was half joking when I asked. Thank you so much!”

“I live in Brooklyn, malysh.” Bucky’s smile turns fond while Peter gives him a side hug. “I’ve got one ear to the ground and as such I know people. I’m just sorry I don’t get to be in on this teachable moment party.”

Peter turns serious in an instant, a heavy stone lodged between his ribs. “That’s not true. You’ve taught me about loyalty and redemption, that even when someone is against you, there's still opportunity for reconciliation. Can’t beat that.”

“Maybe,” says Bucky with a squint, in a direct echo of that tone Steve uses sometimes.

“Are you cool about being in on this plan? None of my parents know.”

Bucky pins him with a wry look. “Kid, my idea of a clandestine plan used to be killing government officials from a rooftop. This is a fun night out for me.”

Peter knows it’s not an exaggeration, but the juvenile little smirk Bucky throws him still makes Peter laugh.

“Glad you’re so easy to please.”

“Hey.” Bucky’s metal fingers tap his nose. “Don’t sass the designated driver.”

“We’re…not drinking, Bucky.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I know that. It’s an expression, punk. You ready?”

“As ever.”

“Here we go.”

Before Bucky can shift into drive, however, a face appears at the driver’s side window. Their laughter cuts off at once and Peter freezes in place.

Tony leans both arms on the lip of the open window, expression easy going but eyes sharp. “Having a night out on the town, are we?”

Peter has no idea how to answer, devastated that they’ve been busted before he can even get out the door, when Bucky suddenly does an odd thing:

He takes both hands off the steering wheel and lays them in his lap.

Open. Face up.

Eyes earnest and sad where they rest on Tony.

It’s a strange gesture, completed with extreme sedateness and such a cautious expression that it feels almost like that time their class watched footage from a wolf hunt up north, the way everything had been so calm right before it all went wrong, blood in the snow. Bucky lets out a short, silent breath, a balloon Tony popped with one glance alone.

Peter looks between them, their intense eye contact and the way Tony’s jaw is clenched too tight. Bucky doesn’t challenge the guarded fire or try to defend himself. He just sits there and waits for Tony to make the first move.

It hits Peter in a rushed spell, the truth of what’s going on. All the memories associated with this entire scene right now.

Bucky is behind the wheel of Tony’s car.

With his family inside it.

“Tony…” Peter doesn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified that Tony doesn’t interrupt him. “Bucky’s going to get us home in one piece. I promise. I trust him with my life.”

Tony’s eyes only shift once, to look at the steering wheel and then at Peter, eyes scanning for injury. Some of the walls come down around his face and he sighs through his nose.

“So do I,” he says softly.

Wary, Bucky nods…and Tony nods back. Peter is faint with relief that such a monumental thing was handled so smoothly.

“I won’t let him get hurt.” Bucky’s tone is equally quiet, so quiet that Peter isn’t sure even he would hear it if he wasn’t sitting so close.

Tony taps the roof of the car and steps back. “I’m counting on it. Keep my gremlin safe, Barnes. And be home by eleven!”

Bucky doesn’t quip in return, except to mouth a quick ‘thank you’ before pulling away. The sound of crickets rides on the fragrant May breeze that whistles through the window, filling the car. Bucky’s knuckles finally look pink around the steering wheel.

Only once they’re out on the road, cruising at highway speeds, does Peter go boneless in his seat. “I can’t believe…I cannot even believe that just happened. That he’s willingly letting _you_ , of all people, drive me.”

“To be honest…” Bucky blinks, dazed and ashen. “Neither can I.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My parents weren’t very nice to each other when I was little,” says MJ, in a calculated hurry, like it’s a scientific fact and not something that makes Peter’s heart skip a whole _ton_ of beats. He finds himself dying to know how much is encapsulated by ‘not very nice.’
> 
> Then her eyes stop flitting around and meet Peter’s head on. Coffee brown pools Peter never wants to find the bottom of. “They never did stuff like this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't get to post this yesterday and wanted to do it before work! Also, I've eaten every single menu item listed in this chapter and I highly recommend them all - especially bean cakes!

For being so stretched thin, May and Ben always made sure Christmases and birthdays happened. It’s a bit of a mystery, even now, but somehow they found a way. Even if it was just one or two presents, there was always something for Peter to open that day.

He’s opened a lot of favourite gifts in his lifetime: a microscope on his ninth birthday, the remote control car that same Christmas, tickets to the Stark Expo, a real police chief hat from Ben. The list sounds small, but Peter still has all of those gifts tucked away in his closet at home.

Knocking on apartment door 2C and a familiar face opening it instantly feels like those times.

It’s just a door, but it might as well be the most expensive wrapping paper in the world when he sees the view behind it.

Peter audibly loses his breath.

MJ looks the same as she always does, really—her own curls swaying free, black combat boots on her feet, leather jacket—but she’s in a simple, yellow linen dress that comes down to her calves and she’s looking at Peter with an open smile that he’s never seen before.

It brings to mind Shakespeare and his crazy words, the long history of people looking at other people and being wowed. Peter’s not sure he’s ever felt this lightheaded.

“Hey,” is his own, inspired response.

MJ laughs at the bathos moment. “Hey, Peter.”

“Thanks for agreeing to wait a week, to give me time to prepare.”

MJ shrugs, but she’s a little red too. “I’m just intrigued by this surprise you promised.”

“Here. I got you these.” Peter’s hands are shaking around the bouquet, though MJ doesn’t seem to notice or mind, putting her nose to them with a grin. “Your dress looks really pretty.”

“Made it myself,” MJ announces proudly.

“Then it’s _extra_ beautiful.”

These are, Peter thinks in a moment of lightning flash embarrassment, the stupidest words he’s ever said to a girl. Rather than tease him, however, MJ just knuckles his shoulder and closes the door. Not before she break off the blossom of one of the dahlias and sticks it in her hair, behind her ear.

“There.” MJ bobs her head once, decisively. “Now I’m ready to go.”

Once they’re down at the car, Peter makes sure to open the door for her. He’s not sure it will go over well, with all the feminist literature MJ’s prone to reading lately, but her response is a mere eye roll and a quirked smile. She even pats his hand on the way in.

He’s _also_ not sure what she’ll make of Bucky, now sprawled in the back seat and solving a Sudoku puzzle on his phone. Especially since MJ has done papers on the Howling Commandos and she recognizes him at once.

“Nice to meet you, Sergeant Barnes,” she says with a sloppy salute. Then she looks at Peter. “Not allowed to drive on your own yet?”

“Nope.” Peter takes a deep breath to hide how sweaty his palms are on the stick. “He’s here to make sure I don’t do anything stupid…though I’m not sure how that will work since he’s not even buckled up, Mr. Paragon of Safety.”

“I can still hear you,” Bucky grouses, not looking up. “And if there’s a car accident, my safety will be the least of our concerns because Tony _will_ bury me.”

Peter runs a hand down his face in chagrin, only to look over and see MJ fighting a smile.

To his shock, he finds himself mirroring it. “I told you tonight would be interesting, didn’t I?”

“Parker—with you, I have a feeling I’ll never be bored.”

Peter beams the entire drive over. He doesn’t even hit any stop signs and he actually manages to brake smoothly enough that Bucky rumbles an impressed sound. If only Tony could see him now.

MJ leans forward to peer out the windows. “Wait…we’re heading back into town. This is the Midtown bus route. Where in the world are we going?”

Peter throws her a cheeky smirk and mimes zippering his lips.

She flicks his arm, pretending to look irritated. “You and the drama, Peter. Do I at least get a hint?”

In reply, Peter points up at a building approaching in the distance.

MJ is a confident person, with a lot of life experience under her belt and a home life that Peter is beginning to suspect is less than ideal, so it takes a lot to catch her off guard.

But when she squints up and then her eyes suddenly widen in understanding, Peter realizes he’s astonished her.

“We really _are_ driving to the school!” MJ glances at him. “Is your idea of a romantic evening studying in the library? Because I say that unironically and I am so down.”

There’s a bubbling in Peter’s nose, that fizzy sensation of joy that’s becoming more and more frequent lately. He rides it, smiling and enjoying every second of this experience.

“Not exactly.” Peter parks the car in the teacher’s lot and hands the keys to Bucky. “You’ll see.”

Bucky takes the keys with a nod. “I’ll be back in a few hours, kid. Have fun and save me a bean cake.”

“Bean cakes?” MJ asks.

“Way to spoil part of the menu.” For all Peter’s complaining, he still hugs Bucky on his way out of the car. “You’re the worst.”

“Love you too, punk.”

MJ hops out and looks just as confused as before. Peter offers his elbow and she links her hand through it.

“Do I have to close my eyes for this surprise?”

“No,” says Peter. He waves at Bucky driving off. “But it would be nice.”

He expects MJ to protest but she closes her eyes at once, lips pursed but upturned. Peter swallows at the responsibility of making sure she doesn’t trip.

“Okay…” Peter straightens. “Okay, here we go.”

They walk for a few minutes, until MJ inevitably clues in. “We’re almost at the football field.”

Peter hums an affirmative but says nothing. He wants to have a front row seat for the moment she finally sees what he’s been planning. With a little coaxing from Coach Wilson, he’d been allowed to set up here after school. Once everyone was gone for the day, he even shimmied up the goal posts and strung some lights around them.

The blanket and basket are exactly where he left them, right at center field, along with four posts and yet more lights strung around them in a low hanging, perfect square. There’s even a full moon tonight, milky in the sky.

“Wait here.” Peter squeezes her hand and then darts away to plug in the string cord. Their section of the field lights up with a warm, orange glow.

“Okay and…now you can look!”

Michelle actually waits a second before doing so, and she’s straining slightly on her tip toes out of anticipation.

It strikes Peter suddenly, in the millisecond window before she opens her eyes, that maybe she’s not humouring him like he thought all along. He assumed she said yes in the first place, over a week ago now, out of pity, letting Peter have his first real date experience and counting down the minutes until she could get it over with.

Maybe…maybe she’s enjoying herself too. Or so he hopes.

Her eyes go huge when she does a spin, taking in the full effect of the gingham blanket, wicker basket, and a real, old fashioned record player next to it. She blinks a few times, from Peter to the basket. Her hair flares in the wind.

“Is it lame?” Peter’s smile falters. “It’s lame, isn’t it? Too old fashioned? I just, I’ve always heard about moonlight picnics and they were May’s favourite thing and renting out a whole _island_ is, apparently, super expensive and I wanted it to be something special and you can’t see stars in Manhattan anyway, hence the lights, and I thought maybe it wouldn’t be too overwhelming since this kind of thing—”

MJ takes the last few steps into the ring of light to place a hand over Peter’s mouth. “Peter?”

“Yemfs?”

She breathes out in a rush, and it’s shaky, but not in a bad way. “This is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me and I love it.”

Relief might be too small a word for what zips through Peter at that moment. He sighs and MJ snatches her palm away as if tickled. “Oh whew. I really wasn’t sure.”

“Did you actually cook all of this?”

“Uh. Yeah, with some help.” Peter scratches the back of his neck when MJ kneels to peek inside the basket. “Bruce taught me and I know you’re super into genealogy right now. But since I don’t know what nationality Parker or Jones are, I thought I’d just do something from every continent, minus Antarctica.”

“Wow.” MJ removes the Tupperware containers one by one. “You even did Australian damper bread.”

“Thank you!” Peter sits cross legged beside her. “Everyone thought it was sourdough bread. We’ve got lamb stew from an Irish recipe, bean cakes from West Africa, dumplings, Bolivian mango juice, and finally for dessert…”

Peter whips out a jar of tawny squares.

MJ snorts. “We’re from America and you made maple fudge? How Canadian of you.”

Peter laughs along. “I figured apple pie was too on the nose. You want to dig in now? I know it’s a late supper.”

“Not yet,” says MJ, surprising Peter. “There’s something I’d like to do first.”

She stands and Peter spends a second being totally in the dark. Then MJ sets the needle down on a record Peter brought, Steve’s favourite Louis Armstrong LP, graciously loaned out for the evening.

There is something bewitching and drop dead gorgeous about the easy-as-you-please way MJ turns and holds out her hand. “May I have this dance?”

Peter stands slower, hair tousled by the wind. He takes her in his arms and even though she’s taller, she waits for him to start swaying before sliding her hand down on his shoulder. For all Peter’s usual inclination to dispel strange and quiet moments by talking, he finds himself clouted abruptly silent.

MJ is too, her eyes everywhere and locked on Peter all at once. She feels like taffy in his arms, supple and indestructible and so sunshine golden that it dispels his fears.

“I’ve known you for so long,” Peter admits around a huff. “This is kinda weird.”

“Yeah, but it’s a nice weird.”

Shame swirls inside Peter’s belly. “There’s something I’ve meaning to tell you, Michelle…”

“What?” MJ’s grin turns knowing. “That the only reason you asked me out on this date is because Ned dared you?”

Peter looks sheepish. “Guilty.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“…Really?”

MJ schools her face into something casual and almost-nonchalant. “Sure. You’re an interesting person, Peter Parker.”

Honesty comes easier when being around Michelle, Peter notices. “I wasn’t sure if it was because…I mean everyone’s been so creepy since they found out about the adoption…”

MJ doesn’t berate him for thinking her shallow or tripping over his words. In fact, for the rest of this song and the next, she doesn’t say anything at all. They’re not really dancing, not like Peter did with Natasha last week in the studio. Just swaying, circling gradually under all the lights and trying to figure out their feet.

But it feels different. It’s awkward and it’s strange, yet MJ is trying—and that is the biggest twist of all.

“My parents weren’t very nice to each other when I was little,” says MJ, in a calculated hurry, like it’s a scientific fact and not something that makes Peter’s heart skip a whole _ton_ of beats. He finds himself dying to know how much is encapsulated by ‘not very nice.’

Then her eyes stop flitting around and meet Peter’s head on. Coffee brown pools Peter never wants to find the bottom of. “They never did stuff like this.”

As one, their eyes stray to the bracelet on Peter’s wrist.

“I wanted to take her—all of them—with me,” Peter whispers. “They’ve made me who I am, given me a second chance.”

MJ appraises him, her guard dropping little by little. “So have you, tonight. Right now.”

“It’s just a picnic,” Peter tries to deflect.

“Oh, I don’t know.” MJ glances around and her hair brushes across Peter’s cheek. Something in her roiling eyes settles, goes still. It’s an awe-inspiring moment, the first time he’s ever seen her spirit calm like that. “I’ve spent most of my life in the cold and I’m tired of being sad, always looking over my shoulder…maybe it’s time we both had some joy.”

“You realize I have no idea how to do…” He flaps a hand in the meager space between their bodies. “ _This_ , either?”

Michelle tweaks one of his curls. “We’ll suck at it together then.”

Peter finds his fingers laced through hers. “I’m looking forward to trying, if you will too.”

MJ doesn’t light up exactly, not prone to exaggerated expressions, but her eyes spark with something humorous and cathartic and overwhelmed—and promptly trips over one of the laces on her boots.

Peter almost goes down with her and somehow they manage to stay standing. They’re both laughing and maybe crying a tiny bit but either way Peter knows in that moment they might be able to pull this whole thing off.

“I just realized why you brought me here,” says MJ, once she’s caught her breath. “This is the exact spot where I first met you, when we were both touring campus during open house week.”

“I had just turned thirteen.” Peter can see it so clearly, as if it happened only seconds ago. “You hit me with a football trying to nail that rude senior kid.”

MJ shoves him lightly. “It was barely a swipe across your nose.”

“I had a bruise on my jaw for a week!”

“Did I ever apologize for that?”

“No, but I’d say this pretty much makes us even.”

With a shy hum in her throat, MJ nudges Peter into a twirl. When they reunite in the middle, she lowers her head so her eyes stay up and she’s sure she has his full attention. “Just know that I’m not ready to…I need to take things slow right now.”

“You’re talking to the guy who was in a wheelchair less than six months ago. I can do slow.”

“I’m serious!” MJ swats him.

Peter arches his head back to look up at the night sky and the busted street light flickering across the street, MJ’s messy hair, Steve’s record looping away, their world travelling meal, May’s favourite bracelet winking by a hundred fairy lights, and the evidence of all the ways people have taught him how to love.

“So am I,” he whispers. He’s never been more serious about anything in his life. “You’re more than worth the wait.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce glances between them. His intelligent eyes clear with realization and discernment. “You know, studies are showing that modelling a type of practice or behaviour is one of the best ways to learn it.”
> 
> Everyone hushes for a moment.

Bucky is, mercifully, asleep pretty much the instant he hops into the back seat again after picking them up. It’s only ten thirty, but Peter doesn’t want to push his curfew or overstay his welcome with MJ, giving her space. The roads are a lot less congested at this hour, making his tenuous night time driving practice even easier.

They take the drive in comfortable, buzzing silence, broken only by MJ’s occasional humming. It takes Peter a moment to recognize the song, one that had been playing on the vinyl record. It’s a French one, something about a rose. He throws her a fond look once he catches on. He even tries to hum a few bars and it’s a strange experience, driving through New York night life with MJ smiling beside him. He hopes he’ll have a lot more chances to repeat the experience, to see this warm and unguarded side of her that she’s never revealed before.

Instead of walking her all the way up, Peter says goodnight to MJ at the apartment complex door where it lets out onto the street.

The block is oddly empty for this time of night, aside from a woman walking her dog across the road. Peter glances around, a little baffled by it, before a warm hand on his cheek recaptures his attention.

“Tonight was fun,” says MJ.

Peter nods, gaze mellow and content. His head spins with the remnants of their mealtime conversation, which made hours feel like seconds. They hadn’t even talked about anything particularly meaningful, just classes and home lives and all the things they’d like to do someday. His favourite thing was finding out that MJ wants to be either a pediatrician or the director of a non-profit.

“It really was.”

“I might even like to do it again some night.”

All her fretting is gone and so is Peter’s. His belly, his heart, his head…they’re all full. So is his hand, where MJ has slipped it into his.

“ _The Princess Bride._ ” MJ taps his bracelet. “Your folks had good taste. Did they…they loved each other? Actual love?”

The question is blocky and not quite coherent, but Peter understands her in an instant. If someone had told him they loved him right after Derrick Henderson, he might have asked the exact same question.

_“Actual love?”_

Peter thinks of Ben and May throwing popcorn at each other and loud, awful singing to Dr. John. The way May had a thousand different ways to sigh or smile and Ben could read them all, knew every gesture of her character by heart.

“They really did, more than I ever understood until I got older.”

MJ’s nose twitches and she fidgets on her feet. Peter waits out her internal deliberation patiently, enjoying the simple act of watching emotions play across her face.

“If you ever need a place, I mean…if your home isn’t safe…” Peter sobers. “I know how that feels, and my door is always open.”

Nerve sufficiently worked up, Peter reciprocates when she leans towards him. Her lips grace his cheek.

“Thank you, not just for tonight,” she whispers. “I know you put a lot of work into it.”

“Not too shabby, as dares from a best friend go.”

“You’re hopeless, Wesley.”

“Oh, you know, I learned from the best.”

Michelle giggles and so does Peter, and even after she’s said goodbye and disappeared, she’s still there, inhabiting the fuzzy and wondrous world surrounding him at the moment. In the dopey grin on Peter’s face. In the mellifluous droning of New York City at night.

_A nickname. She gave me a nickname._

It feels right, somehow, given his past history with them. To be nicknamed in that affectionate way is to be claimed, to be told that you’ll always have a place in someone’s life, and the implications of that sing through his chest.

Peter closes his eyes, takes a big breath in, and though the future still looms ahead—now it doesn’t seem so scary.

The moment breaks when he sighs. “You can come out now.” 

Night sounds pause, hushed. Peter tilts an ear and clues in to the fact that crickets have stopped chirping. Traffic also sounds like it’s been strategically rerouted.

“I know you’re there,” he says. “I can hear you all breathing.”

Another pause ensues and the breath sounds _stop_ , as if this alone will abort the fact that Peter can also hear seven individual heartbeats. He rolls his eyes.

Then a red plume of hair appears over the lip of the apartment awning.

Peter cranes his head back to see her. “Actually, your breathing is the only one I can’t hear. That’s impressive.”

Natasha smirks in triumph. “Years of training with Steve’s ears have worked wonders.”

With this cue, more heads appear, Clint shimmying down the building’s rooftop next to this one, Thor from behind a dumpster, Steve a truck down the street, Tony popping up in tandem with Bruce around a bistro sign. They all convene on the apartment complex lawn.

Pepper, for her part, walks calmly towards him after getting out of her car. “Hello, Peter. I trust your evening went well.”

Peter already has both hands on his hips. “You all _followed_ me? How? I swore Bucky to silence.”

“And he kept his end of that bargain, don’t worry.” Steve leans against the driver’s side, tapping the glass to get Bucky’s attention. “Hey, loser.”

Bucky flips him off.

Tony looks amused and a teensy bit discomfited. “Peter, I put GPS trackers in every single one of my cars.”

“Oh.” Peter feels stupid for not having thought of that. “Well, you still shouldn’t have spied on me!”

Pepper glares at her husband. “That’s what I said. I’m here for damage control purposes only.”

“At least we didn’t stay for your picnic,” Nat offers. “We left you some privacy for that.”

“This right here is the whole reason why I didn’t want to tell you guys in the first place!” Peter flails a hand. “Exhibit A!”

“Forgive us for being a little…” Clint frowns, searching for the most tactful word choice.

Peter arches a brow in challenge. “Meddling?”

“I was going to say protective, but that works too.”

“I _knew_ there had to be a reason you all insisted on ‘hanging’ out tonight.”

Bruce reddens. “Guilty.”

Peter is still shocked they’re here in the first place, that they really followed him right to MJ’s doorstep. He’s amazed he didn’t hear them over engine noises until he hopped out of the car. They wear the affectionate, cloying expressions of parents on their child’s first day riding the school bus or something. Peter’s never been so blindsided.

“I even used a soccer mom car to remain low profile,” Peter mutters to himself, the hand not on his hip clutching at his hair. “Am I fever dreaming?”

“Peter.” Tony gives him a funny look and points to the car. “This is a Maybach.”

Peter stares back, blank and still gazing in wonder at this nosy group huddle that tailed him—rather professionally since Bucky didn’t even notice—all the way here. His brain is glitching at this outrageous development, sue him. “A what?”

Pepper brings up some web page on her phone. She turns it around so Peter can read the history and vehicle stats. There’s also a spreadsheet, proving Peter’s theory that she’s got every single thing in Tony’s garage-lab inventoried down to the letter.

He doesn’t get two lines in before doing a double take, breaking into an instant cold sweat. “I’ve been driving around a three hundred thousand dollar car?! It looks so…so normal!”

“That’s the point, Peter.” Tony snickers. “I bought this car to blend in when I have to run an errand in town, incognito style.”

Peter has both hands over his eyes now. “This has got to be the trippiest first date in the history of first dates.”

There’s a paw-like but gentle pat on his back. _Bruce._

“I got hit by a van upon first meeting my lady,” says Thor, like that helps the situation any.

Peter’s cheeks puff with the sudden exhale of a ragged breath. He drops his hands to see Clint lift one of his folded arms, like they’re in class.

“I spilled sriracha sauce all over Laura on our first date.”

Natasha joins in. “I almost strangled my first not-case-related boyfriend.”

“My girlfriend’s father tried to vivisect me,” Bruce adds.

Tony circles his arm around Pepper. “This lady said I was a self entitled prick when I first asked her out.”

“Yes, thank you,” Peter deadpans. “All of this makes me feel _so_ much better about you following me around like a pack of wild animals or something.”

Bucky rolls down the window to lean his arms on it, elbowing Steve’s hip. The pair of them haven’t chimed in on this dismal show and share, but they’re both faintly smiling. Peter feels his own heartbeat against the gold bracelet.

“But why?” he finally asks. “I don’t understand why you’d keep tabs on me.”

It’s Steve who answers this one, pushing off the car to rest a hand on Peter’s now very messy head. “Pete, son—we’ve spent so long watching you heal. Healing together, really. We just wanted to make sure you’re okay and, well…”

Steve glances around at this motley team-family. “We selfishly didn’t want to miss even one more milestone in your life. We’re all enjoying the fact that you feel safe enough to act your age, have a little fun.”

Hesitant, Peter meets each of their eyes. He’s starting to forgive them, the warmth and love he feels for them pooling in his stomach. “So you had to trail me around and be creepers about it?”

“Yes!” Thor sweeps Peter into his arms, lifting the boy’s feet clean off the ground. Peter feels the Asgardian’s chest against his back, popping with each chuckle. “And we’re very proud of you, little one.”

“Yeah, yeah. Put me down.”

Thor does not, in fact, put him down. Not for a long time.

He keeps Peter trapped long enough for all of them to come over and ruffle his hair and kiss his cheeks and generally embarrass him to death, getting choked up while doing it. Pepper steals the chance to get a few photo opportunities.

It’s…a nice weird, as MJ would say.

Their arms are kind and teasing, so tender that it’s a cosmos distance away from Derrick or Zemo, from harsh slaps and cigarette burns. They treat him like he’s the rarest gem in the world, their greatest treasure, with gentle touches and whispered words of praise that make Peter’s eyes sting.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you guys?”

Nat kisses Peter’s nose. “Yes, and we love you too. So much.”

“I’ve learned more from you than I can ever repay.” Peter sniffs and Thor’s arms tighten. “Thank you, all of you.”

“No, Peter.” Steve’s voice is a knell, authoritative enough that everyone looks at him. He’s the last in this dogpile line up, and his hand finds Peter’s cheek this time. “It’s _you_ who’ve taught us most of all.”

Peter isn’t sure how this is true, how his presence can even come _close_ to matching the minute ways they’ve shaped him, every single day. How they’ve sutured up his heart and helped him trust, to be excited about life again.

How their very actions have taught him that pain and suffering is not the sum total of their future ahead.

Like Tony can read this thought, and he probably can as someone who’s suffered the same types of hurt, he shakes his head. “Steve’s right, Frodo. Do you know how much we knew about unity and being a family before we met you? Diddly squat. Zilch. Nada. You’re our common goal and you’ve given us something to look forward to.”

For some reason, at these words, Peter’s eyes find Steve. The soldier’s are oddly bright under the street lamps. Bucky reaches over with his flesh hand to grasp Steve’s fingers.

“Being hopeful about the future is new,” says Peter at last. “And it’s foreign. But…it’s actually pretty exhilarating, if you can believe that.”

Steve grins, all wobbly. “Oh yeah?”

“Promise.”

“Who am I to argue with an expert opinion?”

Heat crawls up Peter’s neck and he plays with his blazer cuff in sudden shyness.

Bruce glances between them. His intelligent eyes clear with realization and discernment. “You know, studies are showing that modelling a type of practice or behaviour is one of the best ways to learn it.”

Everyone hushes for a moment.

They’re all looking at each other with heavy, insecure expressions that are almost too intimate and too old for this street corner. Like someone’s thrown a live bomb into their midst.

Bucky is the first one to get it, his whole face dissolving, melting, softening into something agonizingly human. Something soaked to dripping with love. When he looks like this, he could be mistaken for a grad student and not someone with a kill count spanning the globe. 

“War is hard,” he admits, “But sometimes…sometimes peace is even more terrifying.”

And now Peter understands too, properly recognizing that look on Steve’s face for the first time. He’s amazed that it took so long, for he is struggling with the exact same thing and used to see those same haunted eyes in the mirror every morning.

“It gets better,” Peter whispers. “I promise it won’t last forever. I’m living proof, I suppose.”

Steve lets go of his friend’s hand to tug Peter out of Thor’s arms and into his own. “Thanks for blazing the way, Peter, for teaching us old dogs some new tricks.”

Peter closes his eyes into Steve’s jacket, the feel of his shaking hands around Peter’s back and that unruly blond hair feathering over his forehead. Peter is his contemporary and a sudden, corona flare sears across Peter’s chest, the pride at being able to give this to Steve, to show him that not everything is filled with sorrow, even when there’s no battle to fight.

He wraps both arms around Steve’s middle. “I couldn’t have done it without you crazy people.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I didn't show a lot of Peter and MJ's actual date - but I wanted this story to be more about how Peter's family has prepared him to love other people, that transition from trauma to peace and hope that can be so scary.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Being sixteen, a teenager,” Tony says in a low murmur, “is supposed to be about making a patchwork quilt, I’ve realized.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and following along with these characters for the ride. Trauma recovery _after_ the worst symptoms have been worked through, reintegrating into 'normal' life (however that looks), is a topic not often covered in fic so I hope it translates well here. 
> 
> Peace and love to you all!

‘Oh I am a seed,  
Oh I am a seed,  
I’ve been pushed down into the ground  
But I will rise up a tree.’

“I Am A Seed” ~ David Crowder Band

“Has he been here long?”

“I think so.” A deeper voice rumbles a pondering sound. “His young lady friend was on the phone.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Perhaps the stress of exams caught up with him, now that they are finished?”

“Could be. He’s only got two days of school left for the year.”

“It is late, even for us, so I was surprised to see him still up.”

“Yeah, I’ve got him. Thanks for letting me know.”

The strongest, most effective pulls of sleep are always when you’re right on the cusp of it, awake enough that your senses can take in information and drowsy enough that none of it makes any sense.

“Are we going to have to flip a coin?”

“That seems most unfair, leaving it to chance when I am the stronger of us both.”

“That’s harsh, blondie.”

“Arm wrestle you for him? I’ll tie the other hand behind my back and everything.”

“ _Now_ who’s being unfair?”

Peter struggles to piece everything together: the cool leather under his cheek, a heavy rectangle in his fingers, the smell of rain and ozone right before a storm, the prickly beard that kisses his forehead, heavy footsteps fading down the hall—

The irreverent hand that pokes his ribs.

It yanks Peter back from true sleep and he scowls. “Go ‘way…‘m nappin’.”

A breathless puff of laughter sounds above him. “Yes, I can see that. Considering you conked out while on the phone with MJ and _I_ had to say goodnight to her for you.”

Peter’s eyes snap open. “Wait, what?”

Tony’s brow crinkles in another chuckle. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. She hung up ages ago.”

“Dude.” Peter deflates at having dodged that particular bullet. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Tony tickles him under the ribs again. “What can I say? You’re just too easy. You’re also adorable right now, by the way. Thor and I had to fight each other for tucking in privileges.”

Peter goes red, both from flinching away at the sensation and the words. “The news may think you’re cool and suave but I know better. I know the real truth, that you’re all a bunch of soft-hearted nerds.”

“Good thing you’re with your own kind, then,” Tony fires right back.

He gives up tickling Peter to just rub his shoulder and Peter doesn’t really have a comeback for what is, fortunately, quite true. Especially when he’s wearing a science pun T-shirt and Nyan Cat sleep pants—he’s got no defense for that. Peter watches Tony for a few heartbeats, the accordion folds around his eyes and the stretch of his goatee on one side in a half smile.

This man, his father, wears an aura that looks like home…like sunny days and long nights that smell of motor oil and tomato sauce, like safe arms and…and…

“Oh no.” Tony sees what’s happening and his hand stops. “Don’t go back to sleep on me just yet.”

The phone is removed from Peter’s palm and placed on the living room’s coffee table. Another poke brings his lids open again, and he’s startled that he can’t remember when he closed them.

“Come on, small fry, work with me here.”

Peter is surprised enough that he wakes further when Tony kneels down and swivels so his back faces the couch. A flutter zips through Peter’s stomach. He’s extra red now, but it’s from something else, an emotion he doesn’t have a name for. Images of Uncle Ben flash through his mind, bringing with them a pleasant warmth.

“Are you offering me a piggy back ride?”

Tony glances at him over his shoulder. “Are you denying it out of a false sense of pride that you can make the whole walk to your bedroom right now without keeling over?”

“Touché.” Peter winds his arms around Tony’s neck, careful not to cinch too tight. “Are you strong enough to carry me?”

“First of all: how dare you. What is it with people questioning my muscles tonight? Secondly, you weigh about as much as a ten year old with your freaky genetics so yes, I certainly can.”

Proving this, Tony straightens his knees without so much as a grimace. Peter wraps his legs around Tony’s waist and they’re in business. His ankles cross near Tony’s belly button and even through his socks he can feel the familiar, lullaby heartbeat.

It makes Peter’s eyes heavy, so he rests his cheek on Tony’s shoulder, nose in his hair. Tony’s careful to duck a little to keep Peter’s weight from slipping off his back, his arms under Peter’s knees.

The bobbing feels right, easy, and Peter wonders what it would have been like to grow up with these people from the very start. To have Clint teach him how to walk. His first language lessons from Nat. To have Bruce, an ever patient teacher, show him how to tie a shoelace. To eat his first chocolate cake with Thor, both of them covered in it, and have Tony guide his hands across a piano.

He thinks about being carried by Ben like this, high up on his shoulders at the fair, and realizes that maybe it all turned out the way it was supposed to.

“Hey, Peter? Remember when you asked me what being sixteen felt like?”

Peter’s fingers tighten in Tony’s shirt over the left side, and the man’s heartbeat is under his knuckles now too. “Mhmm.”

“Well.” Tony tilts his head slightly while walking, kissing the back of Peter’s hand. “It turns out that having a kid means you kind of get to live vicariously through them, experience the world at those stages again.”

There’s a pause and Peter can see his bedroom door getting closer, but it’s not until they’re near it that the words make sense.

“Is that so?”

Tony grins wider. “It really is.”

Peter mirrors it, savouring the decrease in Tony’s blood pressure at the action. “What does it feel like so far?”

With an out of character silence, Tony thinks about how to answer this. “So far, mostly, I’ve learned that driving is a nightmare.”

“Hey!” Peter flicks Tony’s ear to the sound of his laughter. “I’m getting much better!”

“That you are, kid, that you are…”

Tony soothes Peter with thumb strokes along his knee. Peter calms, fighting an urge to chew his sweater cuff that he hasn’t had in months. He settles for resting his chin on it. Tony must feel this, because his fan lines deepen even more. His eyes seem to flicker like twin stars.

“Being sixteen, a teenager,” Tony says in a low murmur, “is supposed to be about making a patchwork quilt, I’ve realized.”

This bizarre statement takes several moments for Peter to decipher. He still doesn’t, totally, until he looks into each bedroom door, the ones that are open, as they pass. It must be late, for even Steve, Nat, and Bruce are asleep.

Then it sinks in.

Peter hides his face and Tony laughs in his throat, buzzing across Peter’s skin. “It’s about taking all the pieces of those who love you, Peter, and making something new out of it. You’re gaining more independence, your own person, but you still need us. And that’s okay.”

Peter’s mind drifts to Tony’s childhood, the cold and exposed environment of the Stark household. His own pieces must have been so small and fraying to work with.

“We’re both making our quilts for the first time, then.”

Tony doesn’t reply to this one, but Peter hears his heart miss a beat. He kisses Peter’s hand again.

Lulled and so content that he wonders if he’ll burst, Peter falls asleep before they even make it through his bedroom door. He does so with a smile on his face.

Peter never feels the hands that tuck him into bed or the lips that press to his hair or Tony’s whispered words that he is one of the biggest, most vibrant center pieces in his life.

“And you always will be, Peter, until I take my last breath.”

* * *

It’s snowing in June and every single one of the four hundred students spilling out the school doors are revelling in it. They jump up and down, white paper swishing down in winking clumps.

MJ stops on the top step leading to the curb, her hand still in Peter’s, to take in the full scene. A shard of loose leaf with algebra on it gets stuck in her hair.

“This is so much litter,” she moans. “It’s like a flash mob but with more crime.”

Peter laughs and can’t help but agree. He pities the freshmen who have to help janitorial staff sort all the thrown papers into recycling. The last day of school jitters are contagious, and the front lawn is just one massive storm cloud of excited shouting. Homework is tossed high with reckless abandon.

MJ swings their joined hands. Hand holding is the one cliché PDA thing she actually enjoys in this tentative, budding relationship, and this had come as no small shock to Peter when she told him. She grew up in a very unaffectionate family, she explained, and the contact reminds her that some things are constant.

“I don’t miss this tradition.” Peter has to yell to be heard over the racket. “Do you remember cleaning up the seniors’ calculus papers until it got dark out?”

MJ groans at the memory. “I try not to.”

Through the maelstrom, Peter finally spots a familiar face parked along the pick up lane. A whole _host_ of faces.

Blinking, astonished, Peter and MJ wander down to see not one but two vintage convertibles hogging the lane.

MJ looks surprised too. “They all came? Aren’t they incredibly busy, even retired?”

“They’re supposed to be.” Peter waves to catch Clint’s attention.

He’s driving the lead vehicle, Bucky and Steve piled in the back. Tony drives the one in behind, Bruce in the passenger’s seat and Nat and Thor lounging over top of each other—the only ones not buckled up—along the back. Other kids have also spied the infamous faces but give them a wide berth, especially when Tony lowers his shades to give one senior a shrewd look.

“Hey, champ!” Clint leans across to open the door for them. He’s even wearing a costume chauffeur's hat. “You’re going to have to sit in the back with our senior citizens.”

“Was the pageantry really necessary?” Peter’s touched, and he’s never felt more loved, but he feels compelled to ask. “At least a dozen kids have already livestreamed this.”

Steve puts a hand to his chest. “It’s your last day of eleventh grade! This is a big deal, Peter!”

And so saying, he holds up his phone to take a photo of them. Tony snaps one too.

Peter sighs, fondly annoyed. He turns to MJ. “I haven’t warned you yet—but my family is nuts. Like, _really_ nuts. I can’t emphasize enough how loopy your life will become.”

Tony splutters. “Watch it or you’re walking home!”

Peter warms to his subject, smile growing. “And you’ll never know a moment’s peace.”

MJ catches on, eyes sparking. “Sounds like they’re pretty vocal.”

“Oh yeah.” Peter nods. “This is a very I-don’t-know-the-meaning-of-personal-space group.”

“Touchy feely?”

“The worst,” Peter confirms. “They’ll cry during a dog food commercial.”

“Hugs?”

“All. The. Time.”

The pair smirk when Tony honks the horn.

“That’s it,” he says. “You’re walking home _and_ I’m making you do it carrying all my groceries.”

Bruce just laughs at him and so does Peter, seeing right through that. MJ takes it all in stride, that these whack job band of retired superheroes show their affection in such eccentric ways.

She leans closer, whispering just for Peter’s ears. “Sounds amazing.”

Peter’s eyes skim to her in wonder and awe. “They really are. They’re insane but they’re great.”

He jumps in the back next to Steve while MJ slides into the passenger’s seat. She doesn’t bat an eyelash at these famous faces.

For once, Peter can predict her behaviour down to the letter and she doesn’t disappoint—as soon as they’ve all settled, she immediately twists in her seat. She waits for Steve and Bucky to finish texting on their phones before pointing at them.

“Barnes, Rogers: what’s your take on the new arms crisis?”

The two men only lose a second gaping at her before Steve jumps in to talk political war theory. She counters with a list of broken peace treaties throughout the last three decades. The men look floored to meet someone who can talk with such knowledge on the history of it.

Tony’s busy snapping another photo of the moment.

Clint even takes off his hat and settles it on top of Michelle’s hair with a loving pat.

Peter doesn’t join in the discussion, leaning back to simply watch all these people, the way they’ve absorbed MJ into their circle of warmth without a second thought and Bruce sharing his banana with Nat in the backseat of the second car. The way Thor is leaning out to help one kid with a backpack zipper stuck to his shirt.

Peter realizes that all of them, even MJ, fall into one homogeneous category.

Family.

Tony honks again so Clint cranes around to catch their eyes. “Are we ready?”

Peter nods, smile so broad it hurts his cheeks. Finally, finally he is.

“I was born ready, Arrow Man.” MJ tips the hat. “Let’s go!”

And they’re off.

**Author's Note:**

> Written October - December 2019.


End file.
